


The Well

by Gigi_Sinclair



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: M/M, Modern AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-21
Updated: 2013-03-21
Packaged: 2017-12-06 01:22:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 27,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/730048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gigi_Sinclair/pseuds/Gigi_Sinclair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Modern AU. Lieutenant Edward Courtenay is having difficulty adjusting after being blinded by an IED in Iraq. Psychiatrist Dr. Sybil Crawley and hospital volunteer Thomas Barrow-serving a community sentence for assault-help him to understand his life isn't over, but just beginning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Well

**Author's Note:**

> Includes plot elements and characters from all three series of Downton Abbey (not necessarily in any order.) Warnings for attempted suicide and a false accusation of rape (both in the past.)

“What makes the desert beautiful is that somewhere, it hides a well.” _Antoine de Saint-Exupery, “The Little Prince.”_

 

April 2007

In his dreams, Edward could see.

People who'd been blind from birth were blind in their dreams, too. It seemed obvious, but he'd had Dr. Crawley look it up online to make sure. They dreamed of sounds, and smells, and sensations. If they'd gone blind in childhood, they sometimes dreamed of colours, or of things and people as they were when they'd last seen them, decades earlier. Edward could sympathize with that. In his mind, his parents were frozen the day he'd left for Iraq. They stood on the front steps of their big, posh house, his mum in tears in a blue cashmere cardigan, his dad standing stoically at attention, as if it were he were the one going to war. Edward dreamed of Laurence, of the last time they'd been together, lying in bed in the Hampstead flat with the sheet half-draped over his body. He dreamed of the desert, of the sand and the dust and the dirt, and most of all, he dreamed of that day. 

Those dreams were the worst, the most disturbing. Edward always experienced them from an outsider's point of view, as an impartial witness who couldn't be seen or heard and who could do nothing to stop what he knew was about to happen. Hovering invisibly, like Ebenezer Scrooge, he watched himself clip on his helmet and take the radio from Lieutenant Jones. He saw as he climbed into the front of the armoured Land Rover, with Captain Turner at the wheel. He heard himself joke to the men outside the car: “We'll be back in time for the first hand, don't start without us.” And then.

And then. And then it happened. More quickly than it had in real life. In real life, they'd driven an hour or more into the desert before they hit the IED; in the dreams, it was more like ten seconds. In reality, they'd been the lead vehicle in a convoy. It was the only reason Edward had survived. In the dream, they were always alone. The windshield shattered, the way it wasn't supposed to but nevertheless had, and Edward woke up screaming, his bedsheets soaked with sweat. He didn't know where he was, what time it was, even whether it was day or night. A nurse would come in, professionally sympathetic, to give him a dose of whatever it was that made him sleep without dreams. In the morning, he would wake up and sit in his room, waiting for bedtime and for the dreams to come again.

That was his life. Dr. Crawley, who wanted him to call her Sybil although he never would, came several times a day to talk about his Recovery. She put it like that, with a capital R, which was how Edward knew he wasn't making one. If he'd ever been in any doubt.

“I still can't see,” he would say, every time she asked how he was doing.

“Yes,” she would reply, endlessly patient. “Have you been working with Isobel on the Braille?”

“Fuck Isobel.” Edward hadn't been profane before the incident. He'd been in the army, of course, and so no shrinking violet, but he had subscribed to the old-fashioned theory that an officer should be a gentleman. He'd been polite, and respectful, and always chivalrous towards women, the elderly and the less fortunate. All that had gone out the window when he lost his eyes. Now he was the less fortunate, and everyone could bloody well go fuck themselves.

“Pain is inevitable, Edward,” Dr. Crawley's voice would come. “But suffering is a choice.” She sounded young. Probably just out of uni, hoping to make her career by finding an injured officer to recuperate. Well, she could fucking look elsewhere. 

“I know. That's why I cut my wrists,” he always answered. And Dr. Crawley always sighed, like she was dealing with a wayward child. 

He was in no mood for condescension today. The dream had come the night before, not once but over and over again, which meant it was now able to break through whatever medication they'd been giving him. Worse still, it wasn't the whole dream, with the hints of joy, miniscule as they were: talking with his friends, the promise of the poker game. It was only the end, the explosion and the windshield blinding him a thousand times over. Edward screamed and sobbed until Major Clarkson himself came in, saying: “Now, now, Lieutenant Courtenay, what's all this?” in a tone that made it clear he was embarrassing them all. Edward didn't care. Clarkson finally rolled up the sleeve of Edward's pyjamas and slid a syringe into his arm. Whatever was in it did the trick. Now, Edward's speaking clock told him it was half-past three in the afternoon and he still felt groggy, as though he had just woken up. 

He heard the door open. Filled with the sudden, insurmountable rage that was becoming his usual state of being, Edward reached for the nearest and softest object he could find. It felt like a teddy bear in fatigues, a get-well gift from some of his old mates who hadn't known what to get him. Anything would have been better than that. “Fuck off, Isobel.” He threw the bear at the door. He had no desire to hit her, but since the chances of that happening were virtually nil, he didn't concern himself too deeply. 

“Right.” A voice replied. Edward heard the bear bounce off the wall and hit the floor, its plastic eyes clinking on the lino. “I am in no way qualified to deal with this, so I'll just put your CDs down here and leave you alone, then.” Edward didn't recognize the voice. It was male, with a Northern, working-class accent.

“Who are you?” Panic rose in Edward's chest. He thought he knew everyone here, all the nurses and doctors, fucking Isobel with her Braille cards and the social workers who popped in with cups of tea Edward spilled onto the floor, sometimes accidentally. The idea of someone new, a stranger, infiltrating his room filled him with fear. “A nurse? A social worker?”

The voice sighed. “You might call me a volunteer. In that I'm not getting paid.” 

“But you don't want to be here?” That was evident from the thinly veiled anger in the man's voice. It was an emotion Edward knew all too well, although he didn't bother to veil it. 

The man didn't answer the question. “I've brought you some books on CD. I'll just put them here, next to the CD player.” There was a rattling of CD cases against the small side table. The man walked back towards the door. It wasn't a long trip.

“Wait.” The word was out of Edward's mouth before he could consider it. The footsteps stopped. “What are they?” Edward didn't care, but it suddenly seemed imperative that the man not leave, not yet. Edward's panic had faded as quickly as it had come, and he never had visitors, apart from Dr. Crawley and Isobel and the nurses. Not even his parents came anymore. The doctors couldn't give any timeline for Edward's recuperation, so naturally his father had gone been forced to go back to work, and his mother had her responsibilities in the community. His brother had never visited. Neither had Laurence.

The footsteps crossed the room again, and there was the sound of plastic rattling against plastic. “'Angels and Demons' by Dan Brown, 'Dead or Alive' by Tom Clancy, 'License to Kill: The Novelization' and 'Rosie of the River' by Catherine Cookson.”

“That all sounds rather dire.”

“Yeah, well. I didn't choose them.” 

“Neither did I.” He never did. He just took whatever they sent, then gave them back a few days later, without listening to them.

The footsteps went back toward the door, then hesitated again. “Where do you want your teddy?” The man asked. There was something new in his voice: a tinge of humour. It was so slight, it was easy to miss, but Edward could tell it was there. 

“On the bed's fine. He keeps me company at night.” Once again, Edward didn't know where these words came from. They got the man to cross his room again, though, passing so close to where Edward sat that he could smell cigarette smoke on the man's clothes and feel the lightest brush of fabric against his legs. The man stood there, his trousers barely touching Edward's ever-present pyjamas, for what seemed like a long moment.

“What would you want?” The man asked, at last.

“I beg your pardon?”

“For your books. If I could choose next time.”

“Oh.” Edward hadn't considered this. “I like the classics, I guess. Bronte, Austen. Thomas Hardy.”

“I should have guessed.” 

“Why should you have?” Edward asked. 

“You sound like a toff. Toffs always like that kind of stuff.”

“I'm not a toff.” Edward had been to Oxford, but his parents were self-made, and one day, he was going to inherit and work his grandfather's large farming estate. Or so he had planned.

“Whatever you say, Your Highness.”

Edward smiled. He couldn't remember the last time he'd done it. When he realized what he was doing, it evaporated. “What do you like, then?” Edward asked, his voice more brisk than he'd intended. 

The man laughed, easily, like he hadn't a care in the world. “Oh, I'll take anything with tits, me.” 

Edward snorted, and the man was gone, shutting the door behind him.

Whatever miracle drug Clarkson had given him lasted a long time. Edward slept well that night and when Dr. Crawley arrived the next morning, he felt something he never had in her presence: remorse. “I say,” he said, rubbing his hands on his thighs, “I'm dreadfully sorry.”

“What for?” She was sitting on his chair. He was on the bed, leaning against the wall. He picked up the teddy, which had spent the night next to his pillow for the first time ever. He turned it over in his hands, running his fingers over the plastic eyes and the scratchy tags attached to one foot. 

“For being so damned difficult all the time. I know you're only trying to do your job.” He always knew it, but sometimes, the anger and the fear and the injustice of it all overtook him. He couldn't help it.

“You don't need to apologize, Edward. But it would do you some good to get out, spend time with the others. You're not the only patient here.” 

“I know that.” He heard them at night, screaming and crying just like he did. He couldn't help them, and they had nothing to offer him. 

“I've printed out an email from Melanie Turner, if you wanted me to read it for you.” Edward swallowed. “I don't have to,” Dr. Crawley went on. “Only if you want me to.”

“Go on, then.” The woman had written it; Edward should pay her the respect of hearing it. 

Dr. Crawley ruffled some papers, then cleared her throat. “'Dear Edward. I hope you are doing well and maybe starting to feel a little better. I know it will be a long road for you, and we think of you often.'” The tears were on their way, Edward could feel them building up. “'The girls are doing very well. Sophie had another piano recital last week, and she was a star, as usual. Emily is going to Switzerland on a school trip. She's very excited, but it makes a mother worry.'” Edward squeezed the teddy so hard his hands ached. “'We all miss Malcolm, of course, every day. But we know that he is in a better place. If you ever feel up to visiting, you would be more than welcome. All the best, Melanie.'” The tears were coming now, rolling down Edward's cheeks. Dr. Crawley didn't say anything. He knew that trick; she often used it. He wasn't going to be taken in this time. He wasn't going to speak first. He stayed quiet as well, tossing the teddy to one side and pressing the heels of his hands into his dead eyes. 

“It should have been me.” Edward's words broke the silence. He couldn't hold out after all. “I should have died instead of him.” Malcolm Turner had a family. He had wife and he had daughters. Edward had nobody. His parents would have missed him, for a bit, but they'd have gotten over it. They were already getting over it. Nobody would have been devastated by his loss, and he'd have been spared this misery. It would have been better all around. 

“No one thinks that, Edward.” Dr. Crawley's voice was soft, sympathetic.

“I bloody do.”

“Then you're alone in that. Anyway, we don't get to make these choices.” 

“Who does? God? Fate? The Universe?” Edward didn't believe in any of that.

“I don't know.” Dr. Crawley admitted. “But I do know that Malcolm Turner would want you to live your life as best you can.”

“You don't know that.” It was practically a shout. “You don't know anything about him.” Edward had barely known him. He'd arrived in Iraq just forty-eight hours before he was killed. Two fucking days, that was it. He hadn't even had chance to unpack his kit bag. 

“Do you want to be alone?” 

“Yes. Yes, of course I want to be fucking alone.” He always wanted to be alone. Except he never really was, because they didn't trust him. There was a CCTV camera in the corner of his room, they'd had the decency to tell him that, and people poking their head in at all hours of the day and night. He couldn't be left alone, they said, because of what he'd done before, and he couldn't honestly argue with them. He would do it again if he had the chance, and again, and again, until it fucking worked. It was the only thing he could do, the only thing he could control. The only way he could put this right. 

“I'll come back in half an hour,” Dr. Crawley promised. “And we'll talk some more.”

“I can't fucking wait.” She left, closing the door quietly, as if the room contained a sleeping invalid. Well, he wasn't an invalid. He lurched forward, putting his hands on the first objects he could reach. They were flat, plastic squares. CD cases. He threw them across the room, feeling a thrill of satisfaction when he heard them shatter against the opposite wall. 

The thrill lasted only a brief moment before it turned into shame. This wasn't him, this wasn't the way he acted. This was the stranger, the man who'd come out of the IED and overtaken the Edward Courtenay who'd existed before. He was tired of crying, otherwise he would have wept. Instead, he lay on his bed, feeling like a naughty boy, and waited for Dr. Crawley to come back and not be angry with him. 

***

Three days passed before the involuntary volunteer returned. Edward was lying on his bed, as always, waiting for sleep in the middle of the afternoon when the door opened and that voice said, “They didn't have no Bronte or Thomas Hardy, but I got you 'Pride and Prejudice' and 'Great Expectations.' And that one's about eight discs, but I guess you've got the time.” Edward sat up.

Footsteps crossed the room, then stopped. Edward listened to the man take the broken shards of “Angels and Demons” and “License to Kill: The Novelization” from the table. “What happened here, then?”

“I had a fit of temper,” Edward admitted. 

“Ah. Well. Happens to the best of us. But if that old cow in the library gets on at me about it, I'm sending her to you.” He sounded cheerful, upbeat. It was nearly enough to make Edward smile. “I'll leave the new ones here,” he said. The footsteps receded, and Edward sat up.

“Wait a minute.” There was no reason for the man to stay but, just like last time, Edward didn't want him to go. Not yet. “Do you have a moment to sit down?” 

A hesitation, then the door closed. The man came back over. Edward heard the chair scrape against the floor. “Do you mind if I smoke? I know it's against the rules,” he went on, quickly, “Only I'm dying for a fag, and it's pissing down outside.” 

“There's a CCTV camera in the corner.” Another pause. Edward imagined the man looking over his shoulder. 

“That's a bugger. What if you want a wank?”

It was cleaner than ninety percent of the typical conversation in a officers' mess, but Edward still felt his cheeks warm. “I don't.”

“What?” He could hear the smile in the man's voice, muffled now by the cigarette Edward imagined dangling from his lips. “Wank, or want to?”

“Either.” He hadn't even thought of it in months, since before the incident. 

“Well, I think I'll take my chances. What are they going to do, fire me?” Edward heard the flick of a lighter. A puff of tobacco and tar and whatever else hit his nose. He hadn't smoked for years, he'd never been particularly dedicated to it, but he suddenly desired a cigarette more than anything else.

“Can I have one?” He reached out into thin air. A cigarette appeared in his hand. “You'll have to light it for me.”

“Right. Of course.” The cigarette disappeared. The lighter flicked again, and the cigarette came back, more carefully this time. The man's fingers brushed against Edward's, just for a moment. It was enough to send a shock through Edward's body. It didn't mean anything. _Too long since you were touched by anyone but a doctor,_ he thought, and brought the cigarette to his lips.

Edward took a long drag. Too long had passed since he'd done that, too. The smoke caught in his lungs, and he coughed. 

“Be careful, will you?” The man said. Then, before Edward could think he might be concerned about his well being, the man added, “I don't want the nurses coming in here and catching us.” The way he said “us” made it sound like they were partners in crime, naughty schoolboys hiding behind the sheds. Edward liked that, strangely. It emboldened him enough to say: “What's your name?”

“Thomas Barrow.” 

“Tom?”

“Thomas,” the man repeated, firmly.

“I'm Edward Courtenay.” He left off the “Lieutenant.” It didn't seem relevant anymore.

“I know,” Thomas replied. “It's on the wall outside your door.” 

Edward took another drag, a smaller one this time. He wanted to know more about Thomas Barrow. “You said you were a volunteer, but you don't want to be here.”

“Ah. Yes.” Edward heard Thomas smoking, drawing in a breath and letting it out. He imagined the smoke pouring from Thomas' nose and mouth, even though he couldn't picture Thomas' face. “I'm on a community sentence.” 

Surprise and intrigue gripped Edward in equal measures. “You're a criminal?”

“Not hardly. I punched my ex. 'Assault', they called it, but it were only the one time.” 

“You hit a woman?” Despite everything Edward had done lately, all that he'd become, violence against women was still beyond the pale. He felt himself hardening toward Thomas, his goodwill—which was baseless anyway, he reminded himself—fading rapidly. 

For a long moment, Thomas said nothing to defend himself. Then, he replied: “A man.” His voice dared Edward to judge him. Edward was hardly in a position to do that. If anything, it improved the situation slightly. “And I got no points in court for saying so, but he deserved it,” Thomas added. 

“What did he do?” It was an overly personal question, given their level of acquaintance, but that didn't occur to Edward until after he'd asked it. 

“He was a bastard,” Thomas said, and left it at that. They smoked in silence for a moment, then Thomas continued. “As long as we're sharing the private details of our lives, that's a nice set of bracelets you've got there.” 

Self-conscious, Edward pulled down the sleeves of his pyjama top as far as they would go. They'd removed the bandages a few days earlier. He could feel the raised scars around his wrists, like handcuffs. “I tried to kill myself,” Edward admitted. He aimed for the same carefree bravado Thomas displayed, but his voice sounded weak, embarrassed. It was how he felt. 

“I gathered that,” Thomas replied. “Why?”

“Because I couldn't cope.” That was the only time Dr. Crawley had been angry with him. The only time he'd seen her display any emotion at all, other than patient sympathy. She'd shouted at him, railing for what felt like hours about his selfishness and his lack of respect for everyone who'd died in Iraq and everyone who was trying to help him here at home. Then she'd hugged him, long and hard. None of that had made him sorry he'd done it, only sorry he hadn't succeeded. 

“Don't do it again,” Thomas said.

Edward laughed, hollowly. “Well, if you say so...”

“I do.” 

They finished their cigarettes. Rather, Thomas finished his, reaching over Edward to stub it out in an empty teacup. Edward had smoked barely half when he began to feel ill. He handed the cigarette to Thomas, expecting him to dispose of it. Instead, he smoked it. Edward could smell the renewed tobacco in the room. It seemed an overly intimate thing to do, but Edward shook off his embarrassment. _It's only a cigarette,_ he told himself. And Thomas didn't seem like he could afford to waste them. 

“Don't break your CDs this time.” Thomas stood up. He was a good distance from where Edward sat on the bed, but Edward found himself wishing Thomas' legs might somehow brush against his, the way they had on his first visit. They didn't.

“I won't,” Edward heard himself promise. 

Thomas hesitated, so long that Edward thought he might have slipped out of the room. Then, his voice returned. “Is there anything else you'd like? Stuff from outside the hospital, I mean? Cause I'm in and out all the time. I can get it for you, no problem.” 

“I can't think of anything.” Edward rather wished he could. 

“Right. Well, I'll see you next time, then.” Just like that, Edward was alone. 

It didn't last long. Thomas had barely shut the door when it opened again and Isobel's plummy voice rang out. “Hello, Edward!” She stopped in the doorway and sniffed ostentatiously. “You haven't been smoking in here, have you?” 

“Yes.” No point in denying it.

“Well. I must say, Edward, that is not on.” Edward imagined her drawing herself up, like an affronted pigeon. “I'll have to tell the Major about this.” 

“You must do what you feel right.” Laughter threatened to bubble up. He tamped it down. 

“Yes. Well.” Isobel coughed again, clearing her throat to an excessive degree. She came closer, her heels clicking on the floor. “Shall we go over the Braille cards today?”

“No.” It was his standard response. Today, he was inspired to add: “Thank you,” although he didn't know why.

Isobel sighed, a martyr. “What about the cane, then? We could take a turn about the hospital.”

“No, thank you.”

“You can't stay in your room forever, Edward.”

“I can try,” he replied, and lay back down. 

Edward didn't expect to see Thomas for a few days at least, but the next morning, just after they'd taken away his breakfast tray, the door opened and Thomas' voice said: “Did you get a bollocking over the cigarettes?”

Edward sat up, a disproportionately strong sense of happiness rising in his chest. “Not really.” Major Clarkson had come around just before bedtime. “Isobel tells me you were smoking in here,” he said, in the tone of a man who had a thousand more important things on his mind. “Don't do that, Edward.” That had been the end of it. 

“Good.” Thomas stepped into the room and shut the door. “I know you said you didn't want anything, but I brought you a present. I felt bad, that you might get in trouble because of me.” He crossed the room. Something brushed against Edward's legs, and then it was in his lap: a mass of thin, cheap-feeling, glossy plastic. 

“What is it?” Edward ran his hands up the object. It was full of air, like a balloon, but the shape was all wrong. Edward felt two inflated cones, then up to a sphere. His fingers dipped into a hole in the object, a surprisingly tight hole, and, all at once, he knew exactly what it was. He'd seen one strapped to the front of a Challenger in Iraq. “Thomas, is this a blow-up doll?” 

“Got it in one. I figured if they want to watch you wank, you may as well give 'em a good show. Then, afterwards, she can keep you company. There's only so much 'Pride and bloody Prejudice' a man can take.” Thomas laughed, but uncertainty lurked behind it.

If ever there was a moment to tell him, this was it. Edward could have made some off-the-cuff quip, something about a male doll being more his style. He didn't. Instead, he laughed. “It's...great.”

“I'm glad you like it.” Relief coloured Thomas' voice. “Listen, I can't stop now, but I'll be back later.” Just like that, he was gone, leaving Edward with his new friend. 

He set the doll on the chair, facing the window. The door opened. Whoever was there paused for a moment, then came in. “I see you've got a new friend,” Dr. Crawley said. “What's her name?”

“Edna.” It was the first name that came to mind. “What does she look like, Dr. Crawley?”

“She's a real beauty, Edward. I'm quite jealous.” Edward laughed, for the second time in one day. _A record,_ he thought. And he had Thomas and Dr. Crawley to thank for it.

Edward waited all day for Thomas to come back. It was stupid, he knew it, but he couldn't help but feel annoyed when the speaking clock said it was half-past three, and then four, and then a quarter after before the door opened again. “Just a quick visit,” Thomas said, nevertheless closing the door behind him. “I'm due at work in an hour.”

“Where do you work?” Edward asked. With Thomas there, in the room, his annoyance withered away into nothing. 

“Grantham's. A restaurant in Westminster.” Edna still occupied the chair. Thomas sat beside Edward on the bed, seemingly without hesitation. He didn't touch Edward, but Edward could feel his presence in the dip of the mattress and in the warmth of his body, so close he could have reached out and placed his hand on Thomas' leg, if he dared. He didn't dare. “Have you heard of it?”

“Sorry, no.” Edward had never been much of a restaurant-goer.

“It's one of the only restaurants in England with three Michelin stars,” Thomas said, proudly. 

“Are you a waiter?”

It was the wrong question. Even without touching him, Edward could feel Thomas stiffen. “I'm the maitre d'.” But he wasn't happy about that, Edward guessed. Bitterness dripped from his voice. 

“Maitre d'?” Edward couldn't help the scepticism in his voice, even though it was dreadfully rude. 

“What, you don't fucking think I can fucking turn it on when I fucking want to, mate?” His accent became broader, coarser. Then, in an instant it changed. Thomas' voice was smooth, the accent not gone but evened out into something more typical, more—and Edward cringed to even think the words—middle-class. “Mr. Courtenay, party of two? Right this way, sir. And may I say what a pleasure it is to see you again? And Mrs. Courtenay. The featured entree this evening is our chef's take on coq au vin, emphasis on the coq. I know how much you love taking it in.” 

“That's amazing.” Edward felt himself grinning like an idiot. 

“Yeah, well.” Thomas' original accent returned. Edward, oddly, was relieved to hear it again. “It's not what I'd call a dream job, but I'm getting there.” 

“What is your dream job?”

“A big house in the country with no fucking work,” Thomas replied, without hesitation. “Barring that, I want to run the whole show.”

“Manager?”

“I deserve it.” There was no hint of doubt in Thomas' voice. “Still, I'm lucky to have a job at all after the assault charge, I guess.” He shifted on the bed, moving Edward with him. “Maybe you could come to the restaurant some time. It's dead posh, you'd fit right in.” 

“I don't go out,” Edward said. It was getting to be a mantra.

“I wasn't talking about tonight. I meant later. When you're better.”

“I'm never going to get better. I'm blind.” They'd told him that almost as soon as he'd woken up. They'd done everything they could, every procedure known to modern science, but the explosion had hit at just the wrong angle. The glass from the windshield had shredded his eyes; he would never see again.

“Since when,” Thomas said, “do you need to see to enjoy good food?” 

Edward had no answer for that. Thomas moved again, then got up. Edward missed his weight at the other end of the bed. “I'll see you tomorrow.”

“Good-bye.” He waited until Thomas was almost at the door. “And thanks for Edna.”

“Edna?” Thomas sounded incredulous. “You named her Edna? What about Jordan or Megan Fox or fucking Beyoncé?” 

“She seems more like an Edna to me.” 

“I knew you were mad.” Thomas left, and Edward found himself immediately looking forward to him coming back. 

Lights out was early at the Downton Officers' Hospital. At nine, they dimmed the hallways, leaving only the nurse's station brightly lit. Edward could have stayed up, but there was no reason to. He went to bed, but that didn't mean he slept. All night, he was bombarded by the screams and the cries of other patients, by footsteps running up and down the corridor, by loudspeaker pages for doctors and nurses. In the army, he'd grown used to catching sleep wherever and however he could find it. Here, it eluded him. He never slept more than half an hour at once, and when he jolted awake this time, he heard someone entering his room. 

It wasn't a nurse. The footsteps were different, heavier. It wasn't Major Clarkson, either. He never came in at night unless Edward was in crisis, and even then it was begrudgingly, as if he were doing Edward a favour. “Who is it?” Edward called out, his voice betraying nerves he didn't want to admit he felt. 

“Shh,” the voice replied. Then, in a whisper: “It's Thomas.”

“Thomas?” Edward sat up. “What time is it?”

“Two o'clock. And no, I'm not supposed to be here, and yes, I know we're being watched. But I wanted to bring you something.” A rustle of fabric, and Edward's nose was assaulted by a tantalizing odour. He put up his hands, half defensively and half to see what it was. He collided with the stiff lapels of an expensive dinner jacket. He jerked his left hand up, and it found some lacquered, unmoving substance. _Hair,_ Edward realized. _Liberally coated with gel_. When he realized that, he pulled his hand away. Thomas didn't seem to notice. He sat on the bed, on Edward's legs, and placed something warm in his lap. 

“What's that?”

“Dinner service. Braised artichoke hearts with salmon croquettes, duck confit ravioli with butternut squash puree, sticky toffee pudding in brandy sauce. Sorry it's all in one box.” Thomas took Edward's hands, pushing a plastic fork into one and knife into the other. Smooth skin rubbed against Edward's right hand, while rough leather rubbed against the left. 

“Are you wearing gloves?”

“One glove.”

“Like Michael Jackson?”

“Not exactly.”

“Why?”

“It doesn't matter. Just try it.” 

Edward never ate much. When he'd first arrived, he hadn't eaten at all. Clarkson had threatened to insert a feeding tube if he didn't “buck up and do his bit,” so he'd taken to picking listlessly at whatever slab of chicken, fish or pork they placed in front of him. He'd stopped asking what it was. They all tasted the same. 

This was different. Edward speared something in the box and brought it to his mouth. Immediately, a cacophony of flavours burst over his tongue: salty and sweet, airy and solid at the same time. He took another bite, then another. He hadn't tasted anything remotely like this in years, certainly not since before he left for Iraq. Possibly never.

“What do you think?” Thomas asked, expectantly, as if he'd cooked it himself.

“It's...” Edward couldn't begin to describe it. He didn't have the chance to.

Edward was completely blind, but he could tell light from dark. He knew when the lights were abruptly switched on in the bedroom. The banging of the door and the nurse saying: “What on Earth do you think you're doing?”, as if they were snorting cocaine off each other's nude bodies, was another clue that he and Thomas were no longer alone. 

“I'm sorry,” Thomas began. He didn't sound it. “I thought he could use feeding up. Look how skinny he is.” 

Edward shifted. He couldn't tell whether the nurse was looking or not, but she didn't have to. It wasn't a difficult situation to gauge, even through Edward's pyjamas. Picking at bland chicken a couple of times a day didn't pack on the pounds, and lying in bed all day did nothing for one's muscle tone. 

“You need to go.” The nurse's voice was firm. Thomas stood up. For a moment, Edward thought he might argue with her. It wasn't intelligent, or advisable, and Edward breathed a sigh of relief, for Thomas more than for himself, when Thomas agreeably apologized.

“I'm sorry,” he repeated, just as insincerely. “Good night, Edward.” Edward could tell when he'd gone. Thomas had a presence, Edward had noticed. It was immediately missed when he left. 

“Can I finish my meal?” He asked the nurse. “Please?” He added, because a little grovelling never hurt.

She sighed. “I suppose. But don't tell Major Clarkson.” The thought hadn't crossed Edward's mind.

In the morning, Edward wondered whether it had been a dream. He felt around the room, but there was no trace of the restaurant box, or of the plastic knife and fork Thomas had brought with him. If it was a dream, Edward regretted not dreaming up more of that amazing food. It had gone far too quickly, and then he'd descended back into his usual fitful sleep. But no frightening dreams this time. 

“I hear you had a visitor last night,” Dr. Crawley said, as she came into his room. So not a dream after all. Edward smiled, thrilled to hear it. 

“Yes.” A thought struck him. “Thomas won't get into trouble, will he?”

“I don't know. I'm not responsible for the people on community sentence. Have you been spending a lot of time with him?”

“What does that mean?”

“Just what I said, Edward. I wondered if you and Thomas are friends.” 

Edward didn't know. He wouldn't have said so, based on their brief conversations, but then Thomas seemed to go out of his way to visit Edward at all hours of the day and night. “So what if we are?”

“You don't need to feel defensive. I'm pleased you've found someone you get along with.” If there was ever a sentence with an unspoken “but”, this was it. Edward spoke it for her.

“But...”

“He's very charming and very handsome.” Edward smiled. He'd known it. It sounded ridiculous, even in his own mind, but he'd known Thomas was handsome. He could tell it from his voice and from the few brief touches they'd shared. “But he's here because he can't control his temper. He's the first to admit that.” Had she asked him? Even if she had, it was an unfair assessment. Anyone could lose their temper from time to time. Take Edward himself, for example.

“It was only once...”

“Just be careful. I don't want you to be hurt. I'm on your side.” 

“Really? Because it doesn't bloody seem like it sometimes.” Dr. Crawley didn't reply. 

Edward was anxious to see Thomas, almost hysterically so. He put up with Dr. Crawley for the prescribed twenty minutes, playing along with her usual desire to talk about his feelings and his thoughts and what kind of fucking animal he would be if he had the choice. (A dragon. Edward always said dragon.) Once she'd gone, he was up, pacing about the tiny room like a caged tiger. He even ventured to the doorway and stuck his head out into the hall. It smelled sterile, antiseptic. He heard footsteps, but they weren't Thomas'. Isobel said: “How lovely to see you, Edward,” and Edward slammed the door. 

He was going to go mad with waiting. He tossed Edna about like a ball, until she fell beneath the table, her legs trapped around the chair. He put on the “Pride and Prejudice” CD, but the player ran out of batteries before Mr. Bennet even visited Pemberley. It was part of the reason he never listened to the CDs. The batteries didn't last long, and he wasn't to be trusted with an electrical cord. He tossed it all aside, gently this time. Just when Edward thought he couldn't take it anymore, the door opened. 

“Hello,” Thomas said, and Edward had to stop himself from rushing into his arms. 

“Were they mad at you?”

“Well, they weren't pleased. But they didn't fire me or nothing.” He crossed the room. 

“They didn't put any more time onto your sentence?”

“I don't think it works like that.”

Of course it didn't. Stupid to think it, really. Edward sat on the bed and Thomas joined him, as if it were usual. “You liked the food, though?” Thomas asked. 

“It was wonderful.”

“I can get you more. As much as you like. The head chef's nephew died in Afghanistan. She's got a soft spot for soldiers.” 

“Ex-soldiers,” Edward corrected, but he didn't know why. He'd never been a pedant.

“Whatever.” Thomas shifted, pulling something out of his pocket. “Mind if I smoke?” Edward shook his head. “You want one?”

“No, thank you.”

The lighter flicked and the tobacco smell filled the space between them. Searching for something to say, Edward remembered a detail from the night before. “Do you always wear one glove?”

“Two if it's cold out.” 

“Why?”

Thomas sighed, a long exhale. “I got into a fight. Because of a boy I loved. I didn't know the other guy had a knife.” A boy he loved. Not a boy he liked, or had a crush on, but a boy he loved. Edward didn't know why that should seem significant, but it did.

“You were hurt?” Obviously. Another stupid thing to say. 

“More like disfigured. There's only so much plastic surgery you can get on the NHS.” 

Against Edward's wishes, Dr. Crawley's words came back. Thomas, a very handsome and very charming man who couldn't control his temper. “Were you doing it for the ex you punched?”

“No. I would never have hit this guy.”

“I bet you were his hero.” Edward hoped the man had responded accordingly.

Thomas snorted. “Not hardly.” Another pause, another burst of smoke. “If anyone's a hero here, it's you.”

“I don't think so.”

“Come on. You went halfway around the world to protect a bunch of people you've never met. I got stabbed in the hand for a little troublemaker who wouldn't even let me blow him.” _I'd let you blow me._ The words were unexpected, but once they came to Edward's mind, Edward saw no reason to deny them. They were true. He wasn't about to share them with Thomas. 

Instead, he said, “I've never loved anyone that much.” That was his chance, his opportunity to slide in “any man” or “any boyfriend.” He didn't. Edward wasn't a hero; he was a coward. 

“I can't say I recommend it,” Thomas replied. They sat in silence. Thomas leaned across Edward, actually resting his body on him as he reached over to stub out the cigarette in the cup on his bedside table. “I should get going.” 

“Of course. Thank you for visiting.” The words were stiff, formal. His mother thanking the vicar for coming to tea to discuss the flower show.

A hand landed on Edward's shoulder. Unexpected, it made him flinch, just a little. Thomas squeezed, briefly, and then once again, he was gone. 

That night, the dream came back. Edward put on his helmet, he took his radio. He climbed into the Land Rover, as always, and as always he made his little joke about being back in time for the first hand of poker. He looked over, at Captain Turner beside him, and saw nothing but a blank where his face should be. 

“I did it for a boy I loved,” Turner said, in Thomas' voice, and the windshield smashed in front of them. 

***

The days went on. Thomas visited, often, sometimes bringing food from his restaurant and at other times CDs from the hospital library. One of these times, when he was exchanging the untouched “Sense and Sensibility” and “David Copperfield” for “The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes” and “Wuthering Heights,” he asked: “Do you ever listen to these things?”

Edward shook his head. “The batteries on the player don't hold out.” 

“I can get you more batteries.” A pause. “But is that really why?”

No. “I don't like it.” 

“What don't you like?” Thomas insisted. 

He didn't like that he had to feel around, like a teenager fumbling on a date, for right buttons on the machine, even though they were marked in big, raised letters. He didn't like not knowing which disc was which, because the stickers were in Braille and he couldn't read a single letter of it. And he didn't like knowing that this was it, this was all the entertainment he was ever going to get again in his entire life. “I just don't like it,” Edward repeated. 

“What if I read to you?”

“What?”

“Would you like it better if I read you a book?” 

Edward's stomach twisted at the thought of Thomas' voice, of that rough, wonderful accent sliding over the words of Dickens or Bronte or even Ian Fleming. Then he thought of the amount of time Thomas would have to spend with him to finish even a single novel, and he was so eager to say, “Yes,” that Thomas laughed. 

“Right, then. I've just got to drop some stuff off for the other patients, and I'll be back.” 

He was. “I found 'Lady Chatterley's Lover',” he said. “The librarian told me it's a bit racy, but I reckon we can handle it. Anyway, it was that or the bloody 'Da Vinci Code', and I'd rather walk over hot coals than read that. What do you think?”

“We can manage,” Edward said. He'd never read the book. He'd heard about it at Oxford, of course. It was a famous, formerly banned book, but he hadn't studied literature.

Thomas laughed. “Good man.” He sat beside him on the bed, his back against the wall. He shifted, then said: “Bunk up a bit. This isn't comfortable.” Edward moved up, but there wasn't really anywhere to go. “Put your legs over my knees,” Thomas instructed. Edward hesitated, then complied. He leaned against the head of the bed, beneath the clipboard full of charts, and rested his legs on Thomas. Thomas was warm, warmer even than Edward would have expected, and much more comfortable. “That's better.” Thomas lit up a cigarette and began to read. 

It wasn't what Edward would call pornography. He'd confiscated some dirty things from his men, and he'd stumbled upon even dirtier things on the Internet, usually—although no one would believe it—while attempting to look up something completely innocent. This wasn't equivalent to seeing a man fucking a horse, or a woman taking it from both sides, or someone with a twelve-inch dildo up their arse. It was far worse. Listening to Thomas describing orgasm as “a queer vibrating thrill inside the body, a final spasm of self-assertion, like the last word,” was the most erotic thing Edward had ever heard. Thomas' voice, partly muffled around the cigarette he seemed to have forgotten in his mouth, was uneven, and if Edward shifted his foot, he expected he would find something rather embarrassing stirring in Thomas' jeans. He didn't shift his foot. The last thing he wanted was to embarrass Thomas; the second last thing he wanted was for Thomas to stop reading. 

“Bloody hell,” Thomas finally said, clearing his throat. He took the cigarette out of his mouth. “And that's just the first chapter.” He coughed again. “Maybe I should have got 'The Da Vinci Code' after all. I think they might have had 'Jurassic Park', too.”

“This is fine,” Edward replied, quickly. Thomas' obvious lack of composure made him feel brave. “Maybe...” He began, then his new found courage failed him. 

“Maybe what?” Thomas pressed. 

Edward bit his lip. He was a former soldier. He'd faced death many times, and now he was dealing with a life-changing injury. He could say this. “Maybe, next time, you could lie beside me while you read. It might be more comfortable,” he added. “For you.” _And for me._

Thomas said nothing. The silence stretched. Edward's face grew hot but, just as he was about to backtrack, to say something about this position being fine, too, or even telling Thomas he could move Edna off the chair and sit there if he wanted, Thomas said: “That sounds very comfortable.” He rested a hand on Edward's leg. It was light, barely a touch, but Edward knew the meaning behind it. And it made his heart soar. 

“Good.” He reached down, placing his hand over Thomas'. It was the one with the glove. Edward went for broke. “You don't need to wear that when you're in here.” _When you're with me,_ he wanted to say, but that might be pressing his luck too far.

“It's really awful, Edward.”

“I can't see it, Thomas.” 

“Oh. Right. Of course.” His blindness had never been a reason for levity before, but this time, Edward laughed. After a moment, Thomas joined in, hesitantly at first as if he was unsure whether it was a safe subject for jokes. It wasn't, not in the least, but at the moment, everything seemed funny. 

***

“You've been doing very well lately,” Major Clarkson told Edward in a hearty, congratulatory tone, on one of his infrequent visits. Two days had passed since Thomas had promised to come back and continue their reading sessions. He'd popped in only briefly the day before, his voice full of apologies. “Sorry, they've got me serving lunch today, then I have to run to work. I'll be back when I can.” It wasn't Thomas' fault, Edward knew that, but he couldn't help but feel a crushing disappointment, a child denied a promised treat for reasons beyond anyone's control. 

“Isobel says you still won't touch the Braille,” Clarkson went on, “but they've got a very comprehensive program at Farley Hall. I've no doubt you'll pick it up there.”

“Farley Hall?” 

“Yes. The convalescent home. It's lovely, near the sea.” Clarkson stopped abruptly, as if suddenly realizing that may not be the amenity to highlight when speaking to a man who had recently attempted suicide. “You can't stay here forever, Edward.” 

“I'm not leaving.” The thought of it brought panic to Edward's chest, squeezing his heart in a cruel grasp. “I don't leave my room, you know that.”

“Not yet, perhaps,” Clarkson replied evenly, apparently unaware of the anguish he was causing. “But we'll get there. I promise.” He left. He was no sooner out the door than Edward was pushing his call button, gently at first, then jabbing at it impatiently, over and over again, until a nurse with a Scottish accent and an exhausted tone arrived. 

“What is it you're needing, Lieutenant Courtenay?”

“Dr. Crawley. I need Dr. Crawley, right away.” Right away wasn't soon enough. He needed her now. His palms began to sweat; his breath came in short gasps.

“I'll see if I can find her.”

When Dr. Crawley arrived, an unbearable length of time later, Edward had descended into full-blown panic. Tears ran down his cheeks as she hurried across the room, her shoes tapping on the floor, to sit on the bed beside him. She weighed less than Thomas. She barely moved the mattress at all. “Edward, what's the matter?” She rested a hand on his shoulder, small and delicate, like a bird. “What's wrong?”

“I can't leave.” His voice was strangled, barely comprehensible even to his own ears. “I can't leave here.” _I can't leave you._ Thomas, and whatever was happening or might happen or was about to happen with Thomas, was thrilling. It made Edward's stomach twist in anticipation, but Dr. Crawley was comforting, reliable. She had been by Edward's side since they rolled him off the plane, bandages around his head and blood still on his face. He couldn't be without her. He wouldn't survive.

“No one will make you. Has someone...” Dr. Crawley paused. “Has Major Clarkson said otherwise?” Edward couldn't answer her. He nodded in tearful silence, a bullied child, and Dr. Crawley hugged him close. She hadn't touched him like this since That Day, when he'd tried to end it all and she'd been so angry, then so relieved. “Major Clarkson,” she said, determinedly, “is wrong. You will leave here, but not until you're ready. And it is you who will make that decision, Edward. No one else.” Edward nodded. He'd wanted, he remembered vaguely, to float the idea of removing the CCTV camera from his room, in anticipation of Thomas' next visit, but that seemed an insignificant concern now, a trifle. He put his arm around her, feeling huge around her tiny shoulders, and held on for dear life.

The dreams haunted him that night, worse than they'd been since he first arrived. Thomas was no longer featured. Captain Turner was back, but that didn't comfort Edward. Rather the reverse. The night was hellish, and the morning even worse. When Thomas arrived in Edward's room, just after lunch, Edward was exhausted through lack of sleep and sheer emotional effort. 

“I'm sorry,” Edward said, truly meaning it. “I don't think I'm up for reading today.”

“That's fine.” There was a thump. The book hitting the table, Edward assumed. “We can just chat, if you like.” 

“I don't even know if I'm up for that.” Yesterday's sheer panic, combined with the terrible night, had done him in. Edward was weak, so weak that he didn't even get up from his position in bed when he heard Thomas close the door. 

“Whatever you want, Edward,” Thomas said. “Really. I don't mind.” There was a gentleness to his voice Edward hadn't heard before. Had Dr. Crawley told Thomas about his breakdown? Humiliation began to form in Edward's mind, pulsing like a headache, but it faded when Edward reminded himself how unlikely it was. Dr. Crawley didn't discuss her patients, and certainly not with a volunteer on community sentence. “To be honest,” Thomas went on, his voice coming nearer, “between this place and the restaurant, I'm pretty fagged out myself.” 

The bed dipped. Thomas leaned forward—taking off his shoes? Edward wondered—then moved up beside him. 

The hospital bed was too narrow for two people. Edward pushed himself against the wall, but Thomas still had to lie on his side, his body pressed the length of Edward's. Edward's stomach twisted again, audibly groaning this time.

“Hungry?” Thomas asked. He didn't pause for reply. “I think it's lobster soufflé today. I'll bring you some.” 

Edward shifted onto his side, facing Thomas. The idea, in theory, was to create more room for both of them. In practice, it just meant Edward ended up pressed against Thomas, from his shoulders to his legs. 

They'd never been this close before. Thomas smelled like smoke, as if he'd just finished a cigarette, and something else, some indefinable scent. Edward was supposed to use the communal showers, but he never did. The nurses gave him sponge baths when they had time, but a few days had passed since they'd last been around. It had never bothered him before, but suddenly he could smell himself, and his hair felt lank and greasy. He kept his arms tightly against his sides, hoping he wasn't too off-putting. 

Thomas didn't seem to care. He raised a hand, putting his arm around Edward and resting his hand in the middle of Edward's back. Through his pyjama top, Edward could feel a rough, callused patch below Thomas' fingers, about halfway across his palm. He wasn't wearing his glove. 

The thought of it, of Thomas being so willingly open with him, sent a shock of unexpected pleasure through Edward's body. He shifted, raising his hand, then realized he was unsure what to do with it. Thomas solved the problem for him. He moved his head, just slightly, and Edward felt Thomas' hair.

It was different from the last time, when Thomas had sneaked in after work. Then, it had been stiff and styled. Now, it was soft, passing gently through Edward's fingers. As Edward stroked, a ribbon of desire uncurled deep in his stomach. In the ranking of erotic acts, stroking a man's hair was somewhere near the bottom, but it was suddenly the most intense sensation Edward had felt in years.

“What colour is your hair?” He asked, hoping to distract himself.

“Black,” Thomas replied. Edward was glad to hear it. He'd never pictured him as a blond or a redhead. 

“Dr. Crawley says you're very handsome.” 

Thomas laughed, a quiet chuckle that sent his breath over Edward's face. “That's kind of her. But you're much better looking than I am.” 

“Then I feel sorry for you.”

“Don't say that, Edward. You're gorgeous.”

He wasn't. He'd never been a stunner, and the shards of glass that had cut his face had done nothing, he was sure, to improve his appearance. But Thomas was a good actor.

Edward's lips were dry. He licked them, his tongue feeling just how chapped they were from months of being inside. “How old are you?” He asked. He half-expected Thomas to dodge the question. He wouldn't have minded if he had, but Thomas said: “Thirty-six. But I like to think I look younger.” 

That was older than Edward had expected, a few years older than Edward himself. Thomas seemed younger, like a man closer to thirty than forty. It was a surprise, but not an unpleasant one. The more he thought on it, the more he liked the idea of Thomas as an older man. 

Thomas shifted, moving closer still. Edward couldn't remember the last time he'd had an erection, and he was nowhere near that yet. Thomas seemed to have no such inhibitions. He twitched against Edward, half-hard already. “Oh, God. I'm sorry.” He moved back.

“It's OK.” It was. It was nice to know he could still inspire an emotion other than pity or irritation.

Another pause. The awkwardness crept back, but then Thomas said: “Can I kiss you?” His voice was soft, and so alluring Edward forgot to be nervous.

Almost. “There's a camera.”

“Let them see.” Thomas closed the gap between them.

Edward hadn't kissed anyone since Laurence, and that was so long ago, it seemed like another lifetime. Thomas' kiss was strong, decisive, but it didn't push. His tongue pressed against Edward's closed lips, but when Edward didn't open them, he backed off, settling for kissing him gently, over and over again, on his mouth and his cheeks and higher up, beneath his ruined eyes. 

Edward loved it, loved the sensations and above all the feeling of being wanted. He hadn't expected to ever experience it again. He was no exhibitionist, but there was no telling how far he might have been persuaded to go if the door hadn't opened.

Thomas kissed him again, deliberately, in full view of whoever was there. It was a gesture of defiance, and it made Edward smile through his mounting embarrassment. Thomas sighed, ostentatiously languid, and rolled over. “Yes?” He said. “Can I help you?” 

“My name is Jack Courtenay,” the voice returned, clipped and precise. “Might I have a word with my brother?” 

Edward sat up so quickly, it nearly turned Thomas out. He scrambled to stay in, his hand gripping to the edge of the bed. “Jack?” Edward called out, into the perpetual blackness. 

“Yes.” Jack's voice was strangled. Edward could imagine his pained expression. Shame overcame Edward, not because he'd been caught with a man, but because he'd been caught at all. He and Jack had never been the type of brothers to swap stories of sexual conquest or make jokes about prowess or experience. He saw Jack as chaste, sexless, in the way he saw his parents as sexless, even though he knew none of it was true. He imagined Jack had always seen him the same way. 

“I'm sorry, Thomas,” Edward began. He was mired in confusion. He didn't want to kick Thomas out, to give him the wrong impression, but at the same time he desperately needed Thomas to be anywhere but here. 

“I guess I'll be going, then.” Thomas sounded put out, but that was, unfortunately, too bad at the moment. He sat on the bed, putting on his glove and his shoes with what seemed like excessive care, then stood up. “Bye.”

“I'll see you later, Thomas,” Edward promised, hoping the words were clear. Thomas didn't say anything else, but he left the door open when he went. 

Edward said nothing. He didn't know what to say. It was Jack who spoke first, his voice teetering on an edge between irritation and disgust. “Mummy and Daddy think you're on death's door. They'll be thrilled to know you've recovered enough to boff the bloody orderly.” 

“He's not the orderly,” Edward said, automatically defensive, although the truth was no better. “And we weren't...'boffing',” he added, pointlessly. Still, Jack did not hold a monopoly on righteous anger. “What are you doing here, anyway? You never came before.”

“And I was feeling badly about it. Although apparently you've been getting along just fine.” 

Storm clouds began to gather in Edward's mind. That had frequently been a result of dealing with Jack, even before all this. “You haven't answered my question.”

Jack sighed, an expression of long-suffering. He hesitated, then moved Edna off the chair. She bounced on the floor, and he scraped the chair along the floor, sitting down. “We need to talk about the farm.” 

“What about it?”

“Grandad's getting on. No one knows if he'll make it to Christmas.” It was the first Edward had heard of it. “I know you were supposed to take it over when he goes, but.” He didn't trail off. That was the end of his sentence. But. But, look at you. But, that's obviously not going to happen now. But, but, but. 

“You want to take on the farm.” That wasn't the plan. It never had been.

“You can't do it, that's clear to everyone,” Jack replied, briskly. “There's no point in pretending otherwise, and I won't insult you by tiptoeing about the issue.” _You could insult me a little bit,_ Edward thought. “I think it would be best if we asked Grandad to re-write his will to make me the sole heir.” 

“You think it's best, do you?”

“Mummy and Daddy agree.” Of course they did. They'd forgotten about Edward, like everyone else. They hadn't even been to visit him in months. “You will be provided for, Edward, you needn't worry about that. If you ever need a place to live...” _If you're ever out of government care,_ Edward translated. “There is a cottage on the grounds for you. But the farm...”

“But the farm will be yours.” Just like that. No matter that Edward had always planned to take it over, no matter that the army had always been a temporary career, a few years of life experience before settling down to his destiny. “Fuck you, Jack.”

He could feel Jack's affront. “There's no need for profanity.”

“What is there need for, then, Jack? A time machine? So I can go back and get my fucking eyesight so my fucking family won't forget I exist?” 

“You're clearly upset. I've come at a bad time.” 

Edward laughed, a harsh sound that reverberated through the room. “There is no good time. Not for me.” He was always blind. He didn't turn it off on evenings or weekends.

“We can speak later,” Jack promised. “I'll ring you in a few days.” Edward didn't count on it.

He didn't count on seeing Thomas again, either, at least not for a while. Instead, just before lights out, there was a brief knock on his door and Thomas said: “I've brought supper.”

“Why aren't you at work?” Edward, already in bed, pushed the covers aside and sat up. 

“I left early. Told them I had somewhere important to be.” 

Edward's heart swelled, even as worry crowded his mind. “You won't get in trouble?”

“There are benefits to being the almost-boss.” Thomas' voice was easy, relaxed. His footsteps crossed the floor. There was the sound of boxes being set down on the table and, before Thomas could begin to unwrap the food, Edward stood up and hugged him. 

The dinner jacket was stiff beneath Edward's arms. For a moment, Thomas didn't react. Edward thought he must be angry after all, or at least annoyed with being so unceremoniously kicked out. Then he brought up his arms and pulled Edward in, resting his head Edward's shoulder. He was a bit shorter than Edward, but not enough for it to be particularly noticeable. Edward didn't remember noticing it before. 

“How's brother dearest?” Thomas asked, after a long moment. Edward pried himself away and sat back on the bed to wait for his supper. 

“He's stealing my inheritance.”

“What?”

“I was meant to get my grandfather's farm when he dies. Not anymore.” 

“That's bollocks.” It was indeed. “Here, try this,” Thomas said, setting a warm dish on Edward's knee. “No lobster soufflé after all, but I brought you a deconstructed beef bourguignon. Chef said you'd love it, since you liked the deconstructed beef Wellington so much last week.” Edward took a bite. It wasn't quite as good as the Wellington, but everything Chef Patmore made was heavenly.“So what are you going to do?”

“There's nothing I can do,” Edward replied, his mouth full. “My parents are in agreement. They're going to get my grandfather to change his will before he dies. Then I'm...”

“Fucked,” Thomas finished for him. “Do you want some of that wholegrain bread? Daisy made it fresh this afternoon.” 

“Please.” He held out his hand. Thomas pushed the bread into it, pausing to press his fingers against Edward's.

“I wish I could help you.” Thomas sounded like he was telling the truth.

“You can't.” No one could. That dream, the one he'd harboured since he was a little boy, was dead, like so many others. 

“Maybe I can take your mind off it,” Thomas suggested. Edward expected some sort of innuendo, but instead, he said: “There's a cricket match on telly tonight. England and India. Should be a good one.”

“A...cricket match?”

“Don't tell me you never played. Posh bloke like you, probably bowled more leg breaks than I've had hot dinners.” The joviality in Thomas' voice sounded forced, unnatural.

“I don't have a TV.” There was no point.

“There's one down the hall. I know you can't watch, of course, but I could let you know what's happening.” A brief pause. Edward wished he could see Thomas' expression. “It'd be like a date.” 

“A date?”

“I don't want you to think I just want you for your body. And I know we can't exactly head out to the pictures to see the latest 'Die Hard.' Or whatever.” 

It was a nice thought, but an impossible one. “I don't leave my room, Thomas.” 

“I know you don't like to. But that doesn't mean you can't.” 

“Thomas...”

The hand came back, the gloved one. It gripped Edward's left hand tightly. “I would be right there with you, every step of the way. I promise.” 

“I can't.” The idea of it gave Edward goosebumps, and not in the good way. “I'm sorry.”

“All right. That's fine.” Thomas didn't sound disappointed. He didn't sound anything at all. “I only brought a little bit of the salad, it never seems to travel well. Do you want it now, or after?” 

Edward finished the meal, and Thomas cleared away the boxes. “Would you like to read some more?” 

“I don't know if that's a good idea.” The camera was still there, watching like something out of George Orwell. Thomas might not have been bothered about giving Major Clarkson and the others an eyeful, but Edward could live without that particular experience. 

“What would you like to do, then?” The question was a natural one, and Thomas' tone was just as reasonable. Still, Edward was unsettled. Thomas' earlier suggestion lurked at the edges of his brain. 

“We aren't supposed to leave our rooms after nine,” Edward said, by way of explanation. 

“I'm sure they'd make an exception for you.” They probably would. Dr. Crawley would have gone home by now, and Major Clarkson would be so astonished to see Edward out of his room he'd be permitted to dance a Highland fling on the nurse's station if he wanted to. 

“I'm so bloody nervous.” Edward wasn't a man who typically talked about his feelings. It didn't come naturally to him, and it certainly hadn't been encouraged in the army, but he felt as if he owed Thomas an explanation. “I don't know what's out there.”

“Not much,” Thomas replied. His tone hadn't changed; it was still easy, relaxed, as if they were talking about some mundane, everyday topic and not something that would affect Edward's life forever. “There's a fire extinguisher on the wall, and a poster about syphilis. Not sure why, I wouldn't think it was top of mind in a place like this. Maybe we're not the only ones having it off.” 

“We're not having it off,” Edward replied. 

“Not yet.” Thomas' arms came around him, pulling him close. His lips pressed against Edward's temple, then Thomas stepped back. “I'm only joking, Edward. I'll be happy to stay in here with you until the end of time, if that's what you want. But only if that's what you really want. You're not a victim. Don't let them make you into one. And don't make yourself into one, either.” 

Edward tried to laugh. It came out more as a sob. “You know, when you talk like that, I almost believe you.” 

“So believe me, Edward. You can trust me.”

He could. He did. “Come on.” Edward had to strike while the iron was hot, or he'd lose his nerve. “Get my dressing gown from the back of the door.” He found his slippers beneath the table and pushed them onto his feet. 

“We don't have to,” Thomas said, but Edward ignored him. He pulled on the dressing gown, feeling for the belt. He tied it in and reached for Thomas' arm. 

“Don't leave me.” That, he couldn't handle.

“I won't.” Thomas pulled Edward's arm through his, and squeezed his hand. 

The floor in the corridor felt different from the floor in Edward's bedroom. Harder, somehow, although he couldn't imagine why. “What's the floor like?” He asked Thomas. 

“Beige. There are a few blue squares here and there. Pretty hideous, all told.” Edward nodded. He was gripping Thomas' hand far too tightly, but Thomas didn't complain. “We're coming up to the television now,” Thomas said, after an astonishingly short amount of time. “There's an awful-looking settee and a chair that doesn't match in the slightest. Prime candidate for 'Changing Rooms', this place.” Edward smiled. “Put out your left hand,” Thomas instructed. Edward did so, and felt the rough tweed of a sofa. “We'll go around to your left,” Thomas said, guiding him. Edward felt his way along the sofa, clinging to Thomas with his other hand. “You can sit now,” Thomas said, when Edward felt the edge of the seat on the back of his legs. He sat, panting like he'd just run a marathon. Thomas disappeared, but only for a moment. A TV sprang to life, blaring nonsense, and Thomas returned, pressing close to Edward's side.

“Is this sofa very small?” Edward smiled. It didn't feel as if a weight had been lifted from him; it was much more than that. It felt as if he'd faced Everest and climbed it, in only a dressing gown and slippers. 

“Not that small,” Thomas admitted. “I'm just really proud of you.” His lips found Edward's cheek. Edward cuddled in, his head on Thomas' shoulder.

Cricket was just as boring—if not more boring—when it couldn't be seen. The commentators narrated most of what was happening on screen, and Thomas was there to fill in the gaps, but Edward could not summon any enthusiasm for it. He was too tired, for one thing, and after a few minutes, he tuned out the television and let himself drift off into sleep. At one point, Major Clarkson's voice filtered in, sounding more surprised than anything. Edward heard Thomas respond. He couldn't bring himself to care what he said. He was here, victorious, and safe with Thomas. He couldn't think of anything better. Later, when Thomas shook him awake, Edward went, still half-sleeping, back to his room.

“Good night, sweet prince,” Thomas murmured, helping him into bed and kissing him on the lips. Then, more quietly: “I love you.” Edward wasn't sure whether he was meant to have heard that or not. He didn't say anything, but he let the words carry him into the most perfect, most dreamless sleep he'd had since the day he left for Iraq. 

***

“Well, well.” Dr. Crawley was in early the next morning, while Edward was still pretending to eat his Weetabix. Pride radiated from her voice. “Major Clarkson tells me you were up till all hours watching TV in the lounge. I can't say I approve of breaking the rules, but I'm proud of you for getting out of your room.”

“It was Thomas,” Edward said. All of it was Thomas. 

“Then I'm even more pleased for you.”

“I'm going to ask him to take me for a walk in the garden today,” Edward continued, optimistically. That was the plan, anyway. He'd already lost his nerve twice over the idea, but he was counting on Thomas' presence to give him the final burst of courage he'd need to follow through. If he didn't, the backup plan was to ask for a walk to the foyer, but that didn't seem quite so momentous. 

“That's a wonderful idea,” Dr. Crawley agreed. “It's a lovely day. And it'll keep him from smoking in your room.” Edward smiled. “I've got some good news of my own,” she went on. “I'm expecting a baby.” 

Expecting it on what? Edward thought. The 5.10 from Paddington?

But that was a distraction from the real issue. If Dr. Crawley was having a baby, then Dr. Crawley was going to leave, at least for a few months. She would leave Edward, which she'd promised never to do. The old Edward, the one who'd come back from Iraq, would have said that. Shouted it, probably, laced with a few profanities for good measure. This new Edward, the one who had Thomas, dug his nails into his palms and forced a smile. “Congratulations.”

“The baby won't come for another four months,” Dr. Crawley said. “In the meantime, you and I will work together to find a doctor you like. And we'll speak on the phone, even when I'm off. I'll need the distraction from nappies and bottles. I won't abandon you, Edward.” Dr. Crawley took his hand, squeezing it. Edward felt like crying, but he forced back the tears. 

“You'll be a wonderful mother,” he said. It was true. He'd never known anyone half so patient and understanding. Certainly not his own mother.

“Thank you.” Dr. Crawley sounded genuinely touched. “And who knows, perhaps parenthood is something you could consider, as well. Down the road.”

“Down the road,” Edward agreed. So far down that it was in another hemisphere, but that was still more than he'd ever considered it before. 

They talked for a bit, about the usual stuff, then Dr. Crawley said, “I've had another email from Melanie Turner. She says she'll be coming into the area on business next week. She'd like to meet with you, but only if you feel up to it.” He didn't. “I'll let you think about that one.” He heard her stand up. 

“Dr. Crawley.” Edward said, quickly, before he could think twice about it.

“Yes?”

Edward swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. “I haven't done anything...silly for quite a long time now.”

“No. You haven't.” 

“So might it be possible to think about taking out the CCTV camera?” 

Dr. Crawley's voice, when it came, was so full of repressed mirth that a blind man could have seen it. Edward could see it. “I'll speak to Major Clarkson about it,” she promised, and then she was gone.

Thomas also arrived early, for once. That was a good thing, because Edward's courage was currently on an upswing. When the door opened, he blurted out: “Let's go for a walk in the garden, Thomas,” before his nerves could get the better of him.

Thomas didn't reply. Instead, someone coughed politely and a female voice, one he didn't recognize, said: “I'm sorry, I think you've mistaken me for someone else. Are you Lieutenant Edward Courtenay?”

“Yes,” Edward admitted, embarrassed yet again. He turned away from the door, hoping the woman, whoever she was, didn't see him blush. 

“My name is Sarah O'Brien. I'm Thomas Barrow's case officer.” 

“Oh, yes?” Of course he would have one. They'd been getting along so well, Edward had almost forgotten why Thomas was here in the first place. 

“He's nearing the end of his community sentence, and I just wanted to speak with some of the people he's been working with.” Sarah O'Brien paused. “Would you say he's helped you?”

In ways beyond measure, but Edward wasn't about to tell this woman that. It was far too personal. “Yes. He's been very helpful. Very...polite.” He reached for appropriately vague compliments, like he was doing a performance appraisal of an underling he barely knew.

“That's good to hear. Very good. As I'm sure you're aware, there was a great deal of concern over giving a man with his record a community sentence versus a prison sentence.” 

“Was there?” 

“Oh, yes.” There was a scratching sound, as if Ms. O'Brien was writing something down. 

Edward swallowed. He didn't want to ask. There was a big, flashing neon sign in his head telling him not to ask, but he was only human. He was still human. “I thought he was convicted of assault.” 

“He was convicted of that.” Ms. O'Brien hesitated. “I shouldn't really be telling you, but the man he assaulted was hospitalized. When the courts also took into account Mr. Barrow's rape charge...”

“ _Rape_?” The squeak that came out of Edward's mouth wasn't his voice. It sounded nothing like it. 

“He was never convicted of it,” Ms. O'Brien went on, hurriedly. “But coupled with the hospitalization of his assault victim, as I say, there was some grave doubt about the appropriateness of a community sentence. I'm so glad to hear everything has worked out well. If I leave some evaluation forms with your doctor, would you be willing to fill them out for us?”

“Certainly.” Edward felt ill. 

“Thank you. And thank you for your service to our country, Lieutenant Courtenay.” He nodded, the barest of acknowledgements. “I'm so sorry to have disturbed you. Good-bye.” Ms. O'Brien's heels clicked away. Edward sat down on the closest surface he could find, the bed. She had disturbed him, all right. His hands were cold, but his face burned. Still, beneath it all, a tiny voice told him: You should have known better. 

When Thomas arrived, it took every ounce of Edward's considerable willpower not to throw something at his head. Instead, he drew himself up and, in a voice formerly used for barking at privates on the parade ground, said: “You never told me you were accused of rape.” 

“What?” Thomas sounded so confused that Edward felt the tiniest glimmer of hope that maybe it wasn't true. The door shut. “Keep it open, please,” he said, like some blushing virgin. The door opened again.

“Where did you hear that?”

“Your case officer came to see me.”

“Case officer? What are you talking about?” A note of panic crept into Thomas' voice, and the hope died. A man who had no idea what Edward meant would have no need to panic.

“Sarah O'Brien.”

Thomas groaned and laughed simultaneously, a strange noise that put Edward's teeth even further on edge. “Of course. She's not a case officer, Edward, or whatever she said. She works with me at the restaurant, and she has it in for me.” Now, Edward was confused. “She's just trying to fuck with you. To fuck with me, really, you're just caught in the middle.” 

“So it's not true?”

A hesitation. That told Edward everything he needed to know. Still, he listened when Thomas spoke. “I was accused. Falsely accused, and the charges were dropped.” 

Edward tried to keep a level head. He'd dealt with this in the army, very occasionally. False accusations were exceedingly rare, but they did happen. Far more common was assaults that went unreported. 

“What happened?” 

“Can I shut the door? I don't fancy the entire hospital knowing my business.” 

Edward nodded. The call button was an arm's length away, if anything happened, and the camera was still there. Thomas shut the door, then came back to the middle of the room.

“There was a party,” he began, his voice hoarse. He cleared his throat and went on. “When we got our third Michelin star, Robert Grantham had a party for all the staff at his house in the country. We all got hammered. There was this boy I...I loved. One of the waiters.” 

“The ex you punched?” Edward asked.

“The boy I got into the fight over.” The reason he wore his glove, then. “I found him passed out on a bed. I kissed him. He woke up, he ran away, and that was it.” 

That wasn't rape, but it wasn't good. “What would have happened if he hadn't woken up?”

“Nothing! I weren't ever going to rape him, for fuck's sake. I would never do that. Anyway, I loved him. But he got scared, and Sarah bloody O'Brien got in his head and convinced him I was a rapist. They nicked me the next morning, he saw a doctor, I swore up and down I hadn't laid a finger on him, which I hadn't, and he dropped the charges. That's it. Really, Edward. I swear.” Thomas' voice was tearful. Edward couldn't let that change his mind. He'd seen plenty of weeping criminals. “He was just scared. I don't blame him. He woke up with my tongue in his mouth and my hard-on in his crotch.” 

“Your hard-on?” 

“We were all drunk.” Thomas was desperate now. “It was stupid, but it weren't rape, I fucking swear it. Here.” The sound of fumbling. “You can ring him. Take my phone. Speak to him right now, he'll tell you the truth.” 

Edward didn't respond. Instead, he said: “She also told me the man you hit was hospitalized.”

Thomas snorted. “For five bloody minutes, maybe. Because he can't take a punch.” That didn't help his case. Thomas seemed to realize it. He went on, his voice getting faster and higher as he talked. “I told you he were a bastard, Edward, and that's exactly what he was, all right? He promised me everything I ever wanted. We'd get married, we'd adopt a kid, I could have my own restaurant to run however I liked. I could wipe Grantham's off the map.”

“But?” Edward prompted.

“But, he was a fucking liar. All he wanted was the inside dirt on Grantham's, so he could open his own place to compete. He dumped me as soon as I gave it to him. You'd have hit him, too.” 

Edward felt his resolve wavering. “When did all this happen?” 

“The assault, or...”

“All of it.”

“The rape thing was about a year and a half ago. The assault thing happened before that, like three years maybe, but it took a long time to come to court.”

Edward was suddenly very tired. “So,” he said. “Just to make it clear, while you were waiting to come to court on an assault charge, you sexually assaulted, but did not rape, a co-worker. Not to mention finding the time to get into a fight where you were stabbed in the hand.” 

A long, long pause. “When you put it like that,” Thomas finally said. “I sound pretty fucking mad, don't I?”

Edward couldn't disagree. “Get out.” 

“No, Edward...”

“Get out,” he repeated, more firmly this time. He may be blind, he may be a shell of a man, a shadow of his former self, but Thomas was right. Edward was not a victim, and he certainly wasn't going to be Thomas' victim. “And have someone else bring my CDs in future.” 

Thomas was still talking. Begging, now. “If you'll just talk to Jimmy, I swear, he'll speak up for me. We're mates now...” 

“Then I'm happy for you, Thomas.” Edward heard a hint of the old Lieutenant Courtenay in his hard, emotionless voice. “But get the fuck out of here before I call for a guard.” 

“I know I've got a fucking temper, all right? And I know I don't make good decisions. Ever. But I like you. I really do, and if...” Edward reached for the call button. “Okay. I'll go.” The tears were back. Edward refused to acknowledge them. Instead, he fumbled on the table, until his hands hit paper.

“Take your book with you,” he said. He wanted to throw it, but he held it out instead. Thomas took it from his hand.

“Good-bye,” Thomas sniffed. 

“Good-bye, Thomas.” _I'm sorry things didn't work out differently._ Edward could never say those words aloud. He waited, listening, until he heard Thomas leave and shut the door behind him. Then he sat on his bed and let himself cry, just a little bit. 

When Dr. Crawley came back for their afternoon chat, she had triumph in her voice. “I've spoken to Major Clarkson. He's not too keen about taking out your camera, but he says you've been doing really well lately. If you'll just make a little bit of effort with Isobel, even let her show you just one or two of the letters in Braille, I'm sure he could be convinced.” 

“That's all right.” Edward forced a smile. “It can stay. But thank you for trying.”

“Oh.” Dr. Crawley sounded deflated. “What happened?”

“You were right about him after all.” 

“Oh,” Dr. Crawley repeated. She didn't sound pleased to hear it. “I'm sorry. We had lunch in the canteen the other day, he seemed very nice.” Her hand landed on top of Edward's. “Have you thought about whether you'd like to meet Melanie Turner?” 

“No.” He hadn't thought about it at all.

“No, you haven't thought, or no, you don't want to?” Dr. Crawley's words suddenly reminded him of Thomas. _You don't wank, or you don't want to?_ He smiled despite himself. 

“I don't know.” 

“Well, if you're asking me, I think it might help her. It would be good for her to meet the man who was with her husband when he died.”

“I wasn't with him.” He hadn't cradled Turner in his arms or heard his last words of wisdom or anything like that. They'd sat in a burning car, side-by-side, Turner dead and Edward nearly there, until the men travelling behind them ran up and pulled them out.

“You were there. You could tell her how it was.”

“She doesn't want to know.”

“We've known each other for quite a while now, haven't we, Edward?” Edward nodded. A lifetime, in terms of what he'd been through. “I know you're a man of empathy. How would you feel, in Mrs. Turner's place?”

Stupidly, Edward thought of Thomas. He hadn't loved him, he hadn't even known him, clearly, but he would want to know. No matter how bad it was, he'd wanted to know. “Are guilt trips a recommended psychiatric technique now?”

“You've never seen me lay out a guilt trip,” Dr. Crawley replied. “But I can put in you in touch with my father, if you like.”

Edward laughed. Then, despite himself, he said: “I'll meet Mrs. Turner.” 

“Good.” Dr. Crawley sounded halfway between surprised and gratified. “Would you like to see her in the garden?”

“Let's not push things,” he said. Dr. Crawley's hand squeezed his. 

They met her in the television room. He couldn't meet her in his tiny bedroom, not with Edna flopping all over the place and nowhere to sit but the bed and one chair. He couldn't meet her alone, either. He waited on the sofa, his dressing gown neatly tied and his hair washed and brushed more thoroughly than it had been in months. At last, he heard Dr. Crawley's voice in the corridor. 

“We do offer some rehabilitation programs here,” she was saying. “But the intensive re-integration into daily life happens at Farley Hall.” 

“And where is that?” Another woman asked. Her accent was faintly Geordie, a North-easterner who'd lived a long time in the south. She sounded younger than Edward had pictured, but then Malcolm Turner had been young. At least he was in Edward's dreams. He couldn't remember the reality. 

“It's on the coast,” Dr. Crawley replied. “It's a lovely spot. They take walks on the beach every day. Edward!” She called to him, her voice getting closer. Edward wasn't sure whether he should stand. In the old days, he would have, so he did, resting a hand on the edge of the sofa so he didn't get lost. “Edward, this is Melanie Turner. Melanie, Lieutenant Courtenay.” 

“It's a pleasure to meet you.” Her voice was soft, genuine. Edward felt butterflies in his stomach, as if he were on a date. He pulled down the sleeves of his dressing gown, making sure his scars were covered, and held out his hand. Mrs. Turner caught it and shook it. 

He didn't know what to say. It was good, in a way, that he'd spent the last week in knots over Thomas, cursing himself for being so stupid and desperate to fall for the first man who came along. It hadn't given him much time to worry about what he would tell the wife of the man who'd died while he lived. 

He stood there, saying nothing. The moment stretched into uncomfortable territory. Finally, Dr. Crawley said: “Why don't we sit down?” 

Dr. Crawley was beside him, Edward could tell that, while Mrs. Turner sat across from them, presumably in the chair Thomas had mentioned but never described. It didn't match the sofa, Thomas had said. Edward pictured it as a flowery, pastel-coloured thing, the sort of chair his mother would have had in the Nineties. Mrs. Turner was here on business, so he imagined her in a woman's power suit, probably blue or grey. Her face, as always, was a void.

“I'm so grateful,” Mrs. Turner began, at the same moment Edward finally found his tongue and said, “It's so good...” They both trailed off. Neither laughed, although Dr. Crawley chuckled gamely.

“Why don't you go first, Mrs. Turner?” She suggested.

“I'm so grateful,” Mrs. Turner said, “That you were willing to meet me.” The sentiment embarrassed Edward. _She shouldn't be grateful,_ , he thought. It was the least he could do. “I've brought you some flowers.” Something came unexpectedly into Edward's arms. He caught it before it fell to the floor. It was a paper cone; reaching inside, he could feel the frilly heads of carnations. “To brighten up your room a bit,” Mrs. Turner added. “But that sounds silly now.” 

“Thank you.” Edward left it at that. If he got too far into it, he would probably start to cry. If that was going to happen, and it was inevitable, he wanted to wait until he had a good reason. 

Another long pause. Dr. Crawley's hand landed on Edward's arm. “Why don't you tell Mrs. Turner a little bit about what you remember of her husband?” 

“I didn't know him.” The words burst forth, coarse and honest, before he could stop them. The hand shifted a little. Edward knew more was expected of him. He'd always made it his duty to live up to expectations. Well, most of the time. “Not much, anyway. It was our first mission together. He wanted to drive.” Edward forced himself to picture it, balling up his hands and rubbing them up and down his thighs. He saw it, behind his eyes. The usual horror that came in his dreams night after night, but more, as well. “He told me about you,” Edward said, although he hadn't recalled it before. “And your daughters. That one of them had a piano recital, he was sad to miss it.” 

“Sophie,” Mrs. Turner said. There was a hitch in her voice. 

“He said you were going to send him a video. He'd use up all his Internet time watching it, but he didn't care. He asked me if I had a family. I told him there was a guy, Laurence, but I didn't think it was going to last.” It hadn't occurred to him to worry about coming out to Turner. Edward was teased, sometimes, for being gay, the way other men in the unit were teased for being short, or tall, or handsome, or ugly. Anything that made you stand out was a target, it was just the way things were. “Captain Turner...Malcolm...said that when I met the right person, I'd know right away, like in the movies. But that it wouldn't be easy, like the movies said. That it was hard work, but that if I persevered,” that had been the word Turner used, Edward remembered teasing him about his vocabulary and his soppiness, “it was so much more worth it than I could imagine.” 

Something happened. Dr. Crawley moved away and someone else sat beside him, smelling of flowery shampoo. Mrs. Turner took Edward's hand in hers. She had long fingernails, unlike Dr. Crawley. Edward wondered if they were painted. “We were separated for a while before he left, Lieutenant Courtenay. We just didn't think we could get along anymore. But we missed each other so much, we got back together a few weeks before he was called up to go. I'm so glad we did that. It would have killed me if he'd died not knowing how much I loved him.” She was crying, Edward could hear it in her voice. It set him off, the tears rolling yet again down his face. He'd cried more since he came back from Iraq than he had in all the years preceding it, including his childhood. 

“I'm sorry he died,” he said, when he could say something. He meant: _I'm sorry I lived._

“It would have been far worse if they'd got both of you. Malcolm would have been furious.” Edward had never thought of it like that; a victory for them and a loss for the opposition. “You need to get better,” she went on. “To show them.” Edward didn't even know who “they” were anymore. 

“I'll try,” he heard himself say. That, he meant.

Dr. Crawley was pleased with him. She said as much, after she saw Mrs. Turner out and came back to his room. “You'll have to ask a nurse to get you some water for your flowers.”. At the moment, they were lying in their wrapping paper, on the table in front of Edna. “You did well, Edward.”

It wasn't a question of that anymore, of pleasing Dr. Crawley or even of comforting Mrs. Turner. It was a question of doing what was right for himself, and languishing in a hospital room for the rest of his life wasn't it. “It” wasn't going to be easy, but he'd never shied from a challenge before. He'd been to Oxford, he'd joined the army, both of which were hard.

He liked Thomas Barrow. That was shaping up to be even harder.

“Will you do something for me, Dr. Crawley?” He said, taking his courage in both hands. He'd never lacked courage; what he sometimes lacked was reason. Perhaps he and Thomas weren't that different after all.

“Of course.” 

“Can you get me a pass?”

“Do you want to leave the hospital?” Her voice was neutral, as if this was an everyday occurrence.

“Yes.” No. “And will you get us reservations at Grantham's?”

“The restaurant?” 

“Yes.” He had to speak to the boy Thomas had loved, the one who'd driven him to get stabbed in the hand, the one who was his friend even after accusing him of rape. And he didn't want to do it over the phone. He needed to be with him, to judge his movements and his tone and find out what Thomas was really about. 

“For you and me?”

He couldn't do it alone. “And your partner, if you like.” She never spoke of one, but she was pregnant. Dr. Crawley was a good person, but Edward had to assume it hadn't happened by immaculate conception. “I'll pay.” He had money, somewhere.

“I can try, I suppose.” Dr. Crawley was hesitant. “If you want. But I think they're very popular. They must get booked up months in advance.”

“Tell them we're friends of...” Of Thomas', but it seemed wrong to use him like that, when Edward didn't know what the outcome would be. “Of Beryl Patmore's,” Edward determined. “I'm the soldier who loved her deconstructed beef Wellington.”

***

It was a mistake. That was obvious from the moment Dr. Crawley's husband—and she was married, although she'd said nothing about it prior to this—helped Edward out of the car in front of the restaurant. Months in a little room had led him to forget how noisy, how fast, and above all, how big the world was. Edward's stomach flipped and bile rose in his throat as he reached out for someone, anyone, to hold on to.

“Why don't we go in ahead?” Tom Branson said. “Sybil can manage the valet. I hate seeing other men touch my car.” 

Mr. Branson was Irish, and a mechanic. That had surprised Edward at first. He'd expected Dr. Crawley to be married to some wealthy man, perhaps another doctor, but apparently he was an Irish mechanic with an intense love of cars. He'd spoken of nothing else on the trip down here. Edward threaded his arm through Mr. Branson's, clinging too closely evidently, because Mr. Branson flinched a little. “Not so tight, mate. People will think we're dating.” 

Edward tried to follow Mr. Branson, but Branson wasn't used to dealing with the blind the way Dr. Crawley and, somehow, even Thomas were. He led Edward into a doorframe and then into a wall. Both times, Edward pretended it didn't hurt. He'd refused to bring his white stick, even though Dr. Crawley had tried to convince him otherwise. He was wearing a large pair of sunglasses, more out of vanity than anything else. 

The din inside the restaurant was less ear-splitting than on the street, but Edward still heard every little sound, in a way he didn't remember hearing things before. Light classical music—Vivaldi, perhaps, or maybe Tchaikovsky—played over a hum of conversation. Glasses clinked and cutlery scratched on plates. When Mr. Branson stopped, Edward did the same. 

He could feel Thomas in front of him. He could assume he was there, of course, knowing Thomas' job and where they were presumably standing in the restaurant, but it was more than that. He felt Thomas' presence, staring. For good reason, Edward thought. Not only was he here, in public, but he was wearing his uniform. There had been nothing else suitable in his wardrobe. Edward had always thought he cut rather a dash in uniform, even if he was, on this occasion, forced to complement it with a pair of black Velco trainers. He still wasn't allowed within a hundred yards of a shoelace. 

Even so, Thomas, who had only ever seen him in pyjamas and a dressing gown, was bound to be impressed. But as soon as the thought crossed Edward's mind, he quashed it. It was too soon for that. He had come with an open mind, but he had to hear what Jimmy said before he made any decisions about Thomas. About a future with Thomas.

“Lieutenant Courtenay.” When Thomas' voice came, it was the smooth, professional accent he'd shown off that one time, bland and devoid of any emotion. “What a surprise. And you have a friend with you.” Despite everything, despite the inherent discomfort of the situation and Edward's persistent desire to vomit, he couldn't help but smile a little. There was nothing in Thomas' voice to suggest jealousy, but Edward could sense it was there. 

“This is Dr. Crawley's husband,” Edward said, after a pause. “Mr. Branson.” 

“Here I am.” There was a movement of air behind him and Edward felt a new presence at his side. Dr. Crawley, wearing a silky dress with gauzy sleeves, the type of which Edward had never considered she might own. “Hello, Thomas. The reservation is under Crawley.”

“Of course.” Thomas' tone didn't thaw at all. “I'm afraid your table is not quite ready, but if you'd care to adjourn to the bar, I will fetch you momentarily.”

“That's fine. Thank you.” Dr. Crawley replied for all of them. Edward left her husband, gratefully, and let her lead him along what felt like a thickly carpeted floor until Dr. Crawley said, “There's a chair just there, in front of you.” 

Edward reached out. The back of the chair was hard beneath his hands. He pulled it out and, feeling the edge of the table carefully, sat down. He heard Dr. Crawley and Mr. Branson do the same, and then someone else approached, his gait uneven, as if he had a limp. “Welcome to Grantham's,” the unfamiliar voice said. “Can I get you something to drink?”

Edward's stomach was too riled up to think of enjoying himself. He had to get this out of the way first. He had to do what he'd come for, to learn what he needed to know, and then he'd be able to relax. Maybe. 

Mr. Branson ordered a scotch and water and Dr. Crawley asked for plain water. “And you, Lieutenant?” the man said, surprising Edward.

“Are you an army man?” He asked.

“I was. A long time ago now.” The Balkans, Edward thought. Or perhaps even Cyprus. Another time, he would have asked about it, but there were more important things on his mind. 

“You have a waiter named Jimmy here?” As soon as he asked the question, Edward realized he hadn't taken into account the fact Jimmy might be off tonight.

The barman paused, just for a moment. “We do,” he admitted, in a tone that suggested he wasn't thrilled about the matter. 

“Might I speak with him? Just for a moment. Please.” 

“I'll see what I can do.” The barman stepped away. “Anna?”

“Yes?” Another voice entered the picture, a woman's this time. 

“Is Jimmy about? The lieutenant would like a word.” The barman's tone wondered why anyone would wish to do such a thing. 

“I'll have a look.” She disappeared. The barman did the same, returning a moment later with the drinks. 

“Bottoms up,” Mr. Branson said, cheerfully. He seemed like a generally pleasant sort of man, unless someone was threatening his car. Edward supposed that was good. Dr. Crawley had enough stress in her life as it was. 

“If you'll follow me, sir.” The woman, Anna, was at Edward's elbow before he realized she'd come back. He jumped a little, and Dr. Crawley said, “Oh,” as he evidently spilled her water. “Jimmy will see you in the back. He's not supposed to chat with the guests, Mr. Carson's very strict about that.”

“Right. Of course.” 

“Would you like me to come with you?” Dr. Crawley asked. 

Edward wanted that very much, but he shook his head. “No, I'll be fine.” He stood, steadying himself on the back of the chair. He heard Anna walk away. “Terribly sorry,” he called after her, although there was no reason to apologize. It was instinctive. “I'm actually blind.” 

He'd never said the words before, not out loud. Now they'd been said, they were surprisingly benign. “I can't see,” he repeated, just for the hell of it. The words lay harmless and limp, like a toothless snake. 

“Oh. I'm sorry, sir.” Another pointless apology, and Anna's footsteps came back. “Would you like to take my arm?” He did. She was short, Dr. Crawley's size, and slight. She was a damn sight better as a guide than Mr. Branson, and she led him along the carpet until they pushed through a big door.

On the other side was chaos. Lights shone brightly, pots and pans banged, knives clattered on cutting boards. It smelled like a thousand different foods, like broccoli and bacon and chocolate cake all mixed together. The floor was different, hard linoleum like in the hospital, and as Anna led him through this sensory gauntlet, a voice, loud and shrill, called out: “Lieutenant Courtenay!”

Anna stopped. Nearby, another woman's voice murmured: “Is that Thomas' blind boyfriend, then?” A knife slammed down onto a board, close enough that Edward flinched.

“Shut up, Daisy,” the first voice responded. “And mind your bread. Alfred, get back to your station. This is a man who knows about haute cuisine.” Hands gripped his, rough and callused. “What did you think about that shrimp foam, then? Not really my style, but it's what all the fancy places are going in for these days.”

“It was...unusual, Chef Patmore,” Edward admitted. “But very tasty.” He didn't know how he'd pictured a three-star Michelin chef. French, probably, or theatrically bad-tempered, like Gordon Ramsay. This woman smelled like his nan and sounded like she ran a fish and chip shop. 

“Lieutenant Courtenay just needs to have a word with Jimmy,” Anna said.

“What about?” A man's voice came, hard and angry, from across the kitchen. 

“Mind your business, Alfred,” Chef Patmore yelled back. “And get on that courgette puree. If we end up in the weeds tonight, it'll be your fault, and don't think I'll forget it.”

Anna began to walk again. “There's three steps here,” she said, stopping. Edward groped out for a bannister, and she took his hand and placed it where it needed to be. He climbed the steps, gingerly feeling their depth with his feet, and Anna said, “You've just got to turn the doorknob, right in front of you.” It should have been humiliating, needing this sort of help from a stranger, but it wasn't. Anna's voice was kind, as if she didn't mind helping him. It wasn't weakness to ask for help, as Dr. Crawley liked to say. It was weakness not to accept it. 

Edward sat in a chair, his hands on a table in front of him. “This is Mr. Carson's office,” Anna explained. “The manager. I'll get Jimmy.” She left, closing the door quietly behind her. Edward ran a hand experimentally over the table. He felt papers, and a ceramic mug full of pens, then a photograph frame. It felt like a good one, maybe made of silver. As Edward wondered whose picture it might contain, the door opened again and a voice said: “If this is about them silver spoons, I swear I thought they were real.” 

It was a working-class voice, but it strove to be something else. At once, Edward could picture its owner. He was lovely but feckless, always on the take, the kind of man who wrapped men like Thomas around his finger with a single look. Men who had strong emotions and no sense. “It's not about that,” Edward said. “I'm a friend of Thomas'.” 

“Oh.” Jimmy hesitated. “Are you the blind bloke?”

“Yes.” Edward wondered how many people Thomas had told about him. And how, exactly, he felt about it. 

“What do you want to see me...I mean, ah, speak to me about, then?”

Edward shifted in his chair. There was no delicate way to put it. “He told me you accused him of rape.”

Jimmy cleared his throat. Edward could picture him blushing, no doubt beautifully. “Yeah, but we got all that sorted. We're mates now.”

“How did you get it sorted?” 

“What?”

Edward tried to frame the question, but even he wasn't sure what, exactly, he wanted to ask. “What happened between you?”

“It was a misunderstanding, that's all. I passed out one time at Grantham's place and woke up with Thomas slobbering all over me. I was worried my boyfriend might come in and think I were playing away, so I buggered off.” 

“Your boyfriend?” This was a new element, something Edward hadn't heard before. 

“Yeah. There'd been trouble between him and Thomas a bit earlier, see, 'cause he caught Thomas with his hand on my arse in the gent's one time.” 

Edward felt the pieces falling together, as if he were Hercule Poirot. “Did your boyfriend stab him?” 

“With a knife from the kitchen.”

“Does your boyfriend work here?”

“Yeah. Alfred. He's the sous-chef.” A note of pride crept into Jimmy's voice. Edward wouldn't have thought him capable of such an unselfish emotion. “Daisy's after him, but he's mad about me. He'd never cheat.”

Edward tried to wrap his mind around this. “You, and Alfred, and Thomas all still work together?” In the army, they would have been separated—or discharged—for far less.

“Yeah.” 

“This place is a bit odd, isn't it?”

Jimmy paused. “I guess,” he conceded. “But we've got three Michelin stars.” Edward couldn't deny that. “Look,” Jimmy went on. “I knew Thomas never raped me. I mean, I'd have felt it, right? But I ran into Sarah after it happened, she works front of house too, and she told me if I didn't kick up a fuss, Alfred would be bound to find out and he'd think I wanted it. Which, I mean, I kind of did. Thomas is smoking hot. I mean, I think he is. I guess you do, too.” Edward furrowed his brows. He'd never heard anyone talk the way Jimmy did, the content or the sheer volume of words. He wondered if Jimmy was on drugs. “I'd definitely have done him, in secret like, except he were always telling me he loved me and he wanted to marry me and shit like that. That's not my thing. So I did what Sarah told me and I sent him up the river. Even though I knew it were wrong. I was sorry after.”

“You could have ruined his life.” Edward had no time for men like Jimmy. They did whatever they liked, never facing consequences, leaving a trail of wreckage in their wake. Human IEDs.

“I said I were sorry,” Jimmy snapped. Then, again, more calmly: “I was sorry. I was sorry about his hand and all. Alfred goes off the deep end sometimes. So do I. Maybe that's why we stay together.” There was a note of revelation in his voice. _Well,_ Edward thought, _good for him._ But Edward's concern was Thomas.

“You and Thomas are friends now?” He asked.

“Yeah,” Jimmy agreed. “He's not a bad guy, but he does stupid shit because he thinks it'll make people like him. Then no one likes him 'cause he does stupid shit. Right?” It made sense, in a strange way. Which was about the only way anything could ever make sense here, apparently. “Are you fucking him?” Jimmy asked.

The question was so abrupt and unexpected, Edward answered truthfully before he could think about it. “Not yet.” 

“Well, if you guys ever want to get a little wild, I could probably talk Alfred into it. He says he's not into freaky shit, but he can be if you ask him right. I can get Daisy, too, if you go that way.” 

“Ah. Thanks.” Edward wasn't sure how else to respond. 

“Is that all?” Jimmy asked. “Cause if Carson catches me in here, he won't be happy.” 

“That's all. Thanks.” Jimmy left. Edward sat for a long moment, considering. When the door opened again, and Anna said: “Can I take you to your table, sir?” he nodded. He had a lot to think about, but he wasn't going to do it on an empty stomach.

The table was filled with glasses and plates and cutlery, far more than seemed necessary for three people to eat one meal. Still, with Dr. Crawley's coaching, Edward created a map in his head. Plate in front of him, water glass on the left, Mr. Branson's wineglass beyond that and the candle at the far right. He spilled his water twice and Mr. Branson's wine once, and he dipped his sleeve into his gravy three times. Still, he didn't burn the place down, and by the time they reached dessert, he was flying high on relative success. So high, that he almost didn't hear Dr. Crawley sigh, then groan, beside him. 

“You all right, love?” Mr. Branson asked. 

“I'm fine. I just need the loo.” Edward felt her stand up, then she came crashing down. 

“Sybil!” Mr. Branson stood up, nearly overturning the table. Edward held it down. The other diners murmured around them, and Mr. Branson said: “Sybil!” again, even more desperately. Edward didn't know what to do. He called: “Help,” weakly, not really expecting anyone to answer him. 

“I'll ring for an ambulance.” Suddenly, Thomas was there, appearing out of thin air. 

“No, no, Thomas.” Dr. Crawley sounded vague, weak and unsure. Edward had never heard such a tone from her before. She was the one in control, she was the one who protected him. “I just had a dizzy spell. I don't want to cause any bother.”

“Don't be silly,” Mr. Branson said, his voice afraid. “Don't be silly, Sybil.” 

The medics were there quickly. Edward heard the commotion, the sound of the siren outside and boots on the carpeted floors. Other people from the restaurant had gathered around as well, one with a deep voice Thomas kept calling: “Mr. Carson” and Anna, the woman from the bar. Another familiar voice appeared, briefly, saying: “Is there anything I can do?” But Thomas replied stiffly. “We don't need anything from you, Miss O'Brien.” The voice disappeared again. 

“We should stand back,” Thomas said in Edward's ear, in the middle of the chaos.

“Dr. Crawley,” Edward said, stupidly. He wanted to do something for her. Hold her hand, at least, or reassure her that everything was going to be all right, even if he didn't know anything of the sort. It was what she'd always done for him. 

“She'll get the best of care,” Thomas said. “No matter what happens.” 

“I need to go with her to the hospital,” Mr. Branson broke in, suddenly close. Edward couldn't picture the scene at all anymore. It was noisy and disorganized. He didn't know who was where or what was going on. “I'll put you in a taxi, Edward. The driver will get you home.” 

“That's all right,” Thomas said, quickly. “I can take him. If you want, Edward.” 

Edward wanted everything to go back to normal. He wanted Dr. Crawley to take him home, to sit with him in his room before he went to sleep, to ask him what Jimmy had told him about Thomas and to laugh if he dared to tell her all of what Jimmy had said. Had suggested. “All right,” Edward said. 

“Good man.” Mr. Branson clapped him on the shoulder. 

“Dr. Crawley...” He repeated.

“We'll be in touch,” Mr. Branson promised, and then he was gone. 

“Get this area tidied up,” Thomas said, authoritatively, to someone. “I don't know when I'll be back.” Feeling as dazed as if he'd run into another IED, Edward took Thomas' arm and let Thomas lead him outside.

The air outside the restaurant was cool and fresh. “I'll get a taxi.” Thomas disengaged his arm. Or, rather, he tried to disengage it, but Edward held fast. Thomas whistled and a moment later there was a whoosh of air as a car drew up to the curb in front of them. 

“That was quick.” Despite everything, Edward couldn't help but admire it. 

“I used to be a hotel doorman,” Thomas said, by way of explanation. “Amongst other things.”

He helped Edward into the back of the taxi and climbed in beside him. He gave the driver the address of the Downton Officers' Hospital and sat back. Their shoulders brushed as the car pulled away. “I hope she's all right,” Thomas said, as lights flashed back and forth across Edward's eyes. “She's a nice woman.”

“Do you know her?”

“Not as well as you. But we had lunch together one day, in the canteen. She was very concerned about my intentions towards you.” 

“What did you say they were?” 

“I asked if she thought I could get away with a white wedding dress.” Edward laughed, too much. When he felt Thomas' gloved hand against his, he stopped. Thomas shifted, as if he were going to move away again, but Edward caught his hand, threading their fingers together as well as he could around the glove. “You spoke to Jimmy,” Thomas said. It wasn't a question. 

“Yes.”

“What did you think?”

“There's something there, all right.” In Edward's opinion, that something was trouble. Jimmy wasn't Edward's type, not in the least, but he was attractive. Obviously.

“Yeah, well. Don't go barking up that tree. His boyfriend's a fucking headcase.” 

“You didn't tell me the sous-chef was the one who stabbed you.” 

Thomas moved a little, and Edward wondered if he was embarrassed. “It didn't seem like you needed to know. But I should have been more honest. About everything.” He coughed. “Anyway I _was_ feeling Jimmy up at the time. Not that Jimmy was putting up much of a fuss, mind.” 

“He offered us a four-way,” Edward said, all too aware of the driver in the front seat. He lowered his voice a little. “Five, if we want to include Daisy.” Thomas laughed, a real, genuine laugh. Edward hesitated. He knew what he had to say next might hurt Thomas, and he didn't want to do that. But it seemed only fair to let him know he might still have a shot, if he wanted one. “He also said he'd have gone with you behind Alfred's back, but you kept talking about love. He didn't like that.” 

“Ah.” Thomas' laugh died. He moved away deliberately this time, disengaging his hand from Edward's. “That's always my problem. I want too much from people. Maybe that's why I keep ending up alone.” 

Edward licked his lips. It was pitch dark, suddenly, the wheels bumping beneath them. _A tunnel_ , he assumed. _How Freudian._ “Maybe I could help you with that,” he said, quietly. 

It was a long time before Thomas spoke again. When he did, Edward could hear the smile in his voice. “Maybe you can.” 

Thomas helped him out of the taxi. Edward insisted on paying for it, which meant prolonged humiliation as he struggled to tell the difference between the notes and the coins in his wallet. Isobel kept offering to help him with those sorts of things, to teach him tricks that would make his daily life easier, but he always turned her down. _Perhaps,_ he thought, as Thomas finally reached into his wallet and took what the cabbie wanted, _it was time to reconsider._

Thomas helped him all the way into his room. It was after nine, so the hallways were dimmed. They didn't encounter anyone, at least no one who spoke to them, and when they arrived at Edward's room, Thomas shut the door behind them.

“Do you need to go back to work?” Edward asked. His stomach fluttered, strangely. He was worried for Dr. Crawley, he wanted desperately to know how she was doing, but he also didn't want Thomas to leave. 

“No. Although if I keep ducking out like this, Sarah will be sniffing about Carson trying to get me fired. Again.”

“Why does she hate you so much?” To go to the trouble of coming here and assuming a false persona to denigrate Thomas' character seemed excessive for some petty workplace dispute. 

Thomas sighed. “It's a long story. We used to be friends, and now we're not.” 

“Because of Jimmy?” 

“Because of a lot of things. The thing with Jimmy was a symptom. It wasn't the cause.” Thomas shifted. “She's Alfred's aunt, by the way. So that didn't help matters.”

The most surprising thing about that was that revelation was that Edward wasn't surprised at all. “That place is insane.”

“Yeah,” Thomas agreed. “We've got three Michelin stars, though.” 

Edward didn't ask any more. He raised his hands to his buttons, then stopped.

“I can go, if you like,” Thomas said. 

“No.” Edward responded just as quickly. “It's not that.” Dr. Crawley had helped him put on the uniform. He could manage pyjamas and his dressing gown all right, but there were so many buttons and zips on the uniform, he didn't know where to begin. “If I say I want help,” he began, deliberately, “will you take that the wrong way?”

“I won't take anything any way,” Thomas promised.

As Thomas undid his uniform buttons, though, Edward felt a stirring deep inside himself. _Maybe_ , it said, _this isn't the wrong way after all._ He stood, as still as a shop window dummy, as Thomas undid the buttons and pushed off his jacket. His shirt was next, dropping to the floor beside him, and all at once, Edward was self-conscious. “I've been blind for months,” he said, as Thomas' hands landed on his belt. “I should be able to do this on my own. I should be able,” he added, frustration mounting unbidden in his voice, “to pay for a bloody taxi on my own.”

Edward felt Thomas shrug against him. He fumbled a bit, and the belt came loose. “You haven't learned.”

“I haven't tried.” A fresh wave of embarrassment came over Edward when he remembered the number of times he'd sworn at Isobel or thrown aside her Braille cards or chased her away. She was an irritating woman, a maddening one, even, but she was trying to help him. “I should try. When Dr. Crawley comes back,” he said, a vow made the most solemn way he knew how, “I'll try.”

Thomas undressed him, then handed him his pyjamas. Edward got into those all right, then climbed beneath the covers. Thomas pulled them up and Edward remembered the other night, over a week ago now, when they'd watched the cricket match and Thomas had kissed him good night. Edward had loved that, had wanted more of it, and the very next day, he'd thrown Thomas over because of his past mistakes.

“It's not fair,” Edward said. 

“What isn't?” Thomas was close, but not particularly. He was standing by the side of the bed, like a father tucking in his son. That wasn't at all how Edward wanted them to be.

 _But how do you want to be?_ The question floated up to the top of Edward's consciousness. Thomas had made lot of mistakes, but he'd also been treated badly. Edward couldn't keep making vague promises and not delivering; he couldn't keep Thomas hanging about without giving him some reason to stay. It was all unspeakably awkward. Edward was embarrassed, about his body, about the scars on his face, about his blindness. But he had to try. 

Wordlessly, Edward held up his arms. Thomas hesitated, Edward could feel it, and then came into the embrace. The dinner jacket was stiff, so Edward bypassed it,sliding his arms beneath it and around Thomas' firm body. Edward hugged him tightly, then moved up, onto one elbow. He put his hand in Thomas' immobile hair and brought their mouths together. 

It wasn't Laurence. It wasn't Dilpreet, or Kevin, or any of the dozen or so other men who'd warmed Edward's bed for a short or a shorter period of time. It was uniquely them, uniquely Thomas and Edward, and it was good. 

Thomas moved slowly, as if he couldn't quite believe this was happening. Edward wanted him to believe it, was suddenly so desperate for him to believe it that he pulled Thomas in hard, their teeth colliding and Thomas groaning as he was bent over the side of the bed. 

“Come here.” Edward shifted backward. “Take off your jacket.” 

“Yes, Lieutenant.” The words were a whisper, rumbling deep in Thomas' chest, and they hinted at something Edward hadn't previously considered. But there would be time for that later. Now, all Edward wanted was Thomas, in his bed, with him. 

With no disturbances. “Wait.” Thomas was already halfway onto the bed. He backed off at once, standing again. “Cover up the camera.” It might send the nurses into paroxysms of panic, or it might not. Edward had never tried it. 

“All right.” Edward heard him hang something, presumably his jacket, over the camera. He came back to the bed, sliding in beside Edward, still in his shirt and trousers. 

“We should wait a minute,” Edward whispered. He kissed Thomas' cheek to make up for it, then shifted further down, tracing a path toward Thomas' mouth. If anyone was going to notice, they would notice quickly. The door remained shut; the corridor was quiet. 

“Maybe they aren't that worried about you after all,” Thomas murmured, climbing back onto the bed. 

“Maybe not.” Edward pulled the scratchy hospital blankets up anyway. If they were interrupted, they could at least retain some modesty.

They kissed for what seemed like an age. Edward enjoyed it—loved it, even—but his body still didn't react. Thomas had no such issue. He was hard quickly, his cock jutting out from his body, straining his elegantly tailored trousers. Edward worked his hand down between them, groping inexpertly in the dark until he hit Thomas' zip. He pulled it down and moved his hand inside, only to hit the seemingly impenetrable barrier of Y-fronts. 

“Here.” Thomas saved him from his mounting frustration. He shifted his trousers and pulled out his own cock. The tip was already wet. Edward pulled up his pyjama top, just far enough to let Thomas' cock press against his stomach. Thomas groaned and kissed him again. 

“You can fuck me,” Edward offered. It seemed an inelegant way of putting it, but he'd forgotten how to say it nicely, how to make the offer in some sweet, romantic way. He wasn't sure he'd ever known. 

“No,” Thomas said. His mouth was against Edward's neck, sucking hard enough to leave a bruise Major Clarkson and Isobel and the others were bound to notice. _Let them see,_ Edward thought. 

“Why not?” 

“Not here,” Thomas amended. “Not while you're in the hospital. When you get better.” That was the best incentive Edward had yet encountered to improve. 

“What do you want, then?” 

Thomas put a hand over Edward's, guiding it onto his erection. His cock was long, well-shaped, with a thick vein on the underside. Thomas groaned when Edward ran his finger along it. Edward squeezed, gently, and Thomas gasped into his ear. 

He didn't last long. Another few strokes, a soft fondling of his balls, and Thomas was coming, one hand gripping Edward's shoulder and the other atop Edward's hand on his cock. He sobbed, a little, and Edward pulled him close, kissing whatever part of Thomas' face happened to be nearest. He felt a completeness, and so much tenderness for Thomas that he could cry, again. Still, down below, there was nothing.

“Are you all right?” Thomas asked, after a moment. He ran a hand through his own hair, no doubt disarranging it. Edward touched it to make sure.

“I'm fine,” Edward said. It wasn't exactly true. The doctors hadn't mentioned anything about impotence, but then, he hadn't asked. 

“You're not...” Thomas began, then trailed off.

“No. I'm not.” 

“It's all right,” Thomas soothed. Edward didn't know whether he should be worried. He would have to come up with some oblique and non-embarrassing way to ask Dr. Crawley. It wasn't her area of expertise, but she would find out for him. “I love you,” Thomas added. This time, Edward knew he was meant to hear it. 

He didn't know if he felt the same. He didn't know if he'd ever felt that way for anyone, if he ever could. He did know he cared very deeply for Thomas, and he knew what Thomas needed to hear. “I love you, too,” he said. Thomas clung tightly to him, as if he were the mast on a sinking ship. Edward wasn't used to that. For a long time now, he'd been the one who was drowning. 

Thomas stayed all night, leaving just before the doctors came on their morning rounds. “Don't want everyone knowing what we've been up to,” he said, raining kisses onto Edward's face. “Although it would serve them right, in a way, if you were dead in here, given all the attention they've paid you.” 

It was true. Thomas' jacket had hung over the camera all night, and no one came to investigate. None of the nurses had even peered in, which was unusual. Maybe, he thought, they'd deliberately been leaving him alone. Maybe they knew he had a...what? Gentleman caller? Boyfriend? Partner? in here. That thought made Edward squirm uncomfortably. He was a private man, at heart, but there was no privacy in the army, and there was no privacy in the hospital. At least, not usually.

Thomas kissed him again and pulled on his jacket, letting Edward run his hands all over him as he dressed. He felt rough and smooth at the same time, his clothes flawless and his face unshaven, his tie around his neck and his hair disarranged. James Bond who'd been dragged through a privet hedge, Edward imagined, or the maitre d' of a posh restaurant who'd spent the night in another man's hospital bed. He only wished he could picture Thomas' face. 

“I have to be in court this afternoon,” Thomas announced, suddenly. If there was a more whiplash-inducing way for Thomas to remind Edward exactly who he was, Edward couldn't think of one. “They're going to tell me if I've been a good boy and have learned my lesson about punching men in the face.”

“Have you?”

Thomas sighed. “I can't lie, Edward. I would punch that man again. But I wouldn't do it to anyone else.”

“Not even Alfred?”

Thomas hesitated. “Probably not.” 

That was something, Edward supposed. “Do you want me to go with you?” It was a ridiculous suggestion, as likely as the two them taking a stroll on the moon. “I don't want you to be alone.”

“I appreciate the offer,” Thomas sounding genuinely touched. “But my dad's coming down from Ripon, like he always does. He has to go back home right after, because of his shop, otherwise I'd bring him to meet you.”

“He always comes?”

“Whenever I'm in court. He came after the fight with Alfred, too. Not that I got any fucking sympathy, mind. 'Serves you right for chasing kids. Find a bloody man already,' I think were his exact words.” Thomas sounded happy, relaxed. Edward couldn't get his head around it.

“He doesn't mind doing that?” Edward's parents had made a game effort to visit him, at first. But as soon as it became inconvenient, they were gone, never to return. And they only lived in Windsor.

“Are you joking?” Thomas sounded incredulous. “I'd take a knife from Alfred over a bollocking from me dad any day. And I get a bollocking from me dad every damn time, let me tell you.”

“But he's always there.” 

“He's always there.” 

Once Thomas had gone, Edward sat up in bed for a while. Breakfast didn't seem forthcoming, so he pushed his feet into his slippers and made his way over to the door. He was considering stepping out into the corridor, seriously considering it, when Isobel's voice called: “Good morning, Edward!”

He suppressed his natural urge to snap at her. “Good morning, Isobel,” he said. 

It was bare politeness, but she seemed taken aback. She stuttered, “Oh. Good morning. Good morning to you,” ridiculously, and Edward wondered if he had really been that awful to her. “Dr. Crawley gave me a message for you.” They were distant relatives of some sort, Edward remembered. Isobel's last name was also Crawley, although he couldn't recall the exact relationship between them. “She says everything is fine. She and the baby are perfectly well.”

“Thank God,” Edward broke in, without really knowing why. He wasn't religious, not in the least. 

“But she does have what they're calling 'pre-eclampsia.'”

“What does that mean?”

“She's been put on bed rest for the remainder of her pregnancy, and they'll do a Caesarean section as soon as it's possible. I did think there was something wrong,” Isobel added, a touch of triumph in her voice. “A skinny little thing like that shouldn't gain so much weight. When I had Matthew all those years ago...” Edward tuned her out. He hadn't noticed Dr. Crawley gaining weight. He hadn't noticed anything.

“So she won't come back?” He frowned, trying to take this in. 

“Not until the baby's born. She's promised she'll visit then, as soon as she can. And she says she apologizes, but she hopes you'll understand the situation.” 

Edward understood nothing. “Can I go see her?”

“I don't know if that's appropriate, Edward.”

He knew it wasn't. He still asked. “Why not?”

“Well, she...she needs rest.”

“I need her!” The words were shouted, the tone harsh, like in the old days. The days before Thomas. Isobel placed a hand on Edward's arm. Edward yanked his arm away. “She told me she would never abandon me.” 

“She didn't have a choice.” Isobel's voice turned cross. She sounded like Dr. Crawley when she was angry; for the first time, Edward could hear a family resemblance. “And, if you ask me, I think it's about time you stop being so selfish. You have the use of your brain, and all your limbs, and that's more than a lot of people here can say. From what the nurses tell me, you've also got a...a companion to support you.” Edward nearly laughed at the expression. It made him sound eighty years old. “So it's about time you stopped acting like a spoiled child and started acting like an officer.” She finished, out of breath. 

“I'm not an officer anymore,” he said. “I'm just a man.”

Isobel's hand came back. This time, Edward didn't push it away. “So act like that, then. Be a man Dr. Crawley can be proud of. That's what Sybil would want.” She was right. Of course she was. 

“Isobel,” he said. The words stuck in his throat, but he coughed and freed them. “Would you have time to teach me some Braille today? Please?” 

“Of course I will.” She sounded as thrilled as if he'd promised her a trip around the world and a date with Christopher Plummer. Or whoever was in her age bracket. “Of course, Edward.” 

***

Seven days. One week was all it took without Dr. Crawley before Major Clarkson said the words: “Farley Hall” in Edward's hearing. Specifically came in to say them, in fact, as Edward and Thomas sat on the bed, Thomas with a cigarette in his mouth and Edward with Isobel's Braille flashcards in his hands. 

“You can't send him away,” Thomas replied. His voice wasn't angry, or frightened, or hysterical, all emotions running through Edward's head. Thomas was cool, collected, matter-of-fact. 

“I'm sorry, Mr...Barrow, was it?” Major Clarkson said. “I was given to understand your community sentence had ended.” 

“It has.” Edward could hear Thomas smile around his cigarette. The court date had gone well, apparently. His ex hadn't made trouble, he hadn't even shown up. After taking his father to the station, Thomas had come to the hospital, thrown his arms around Edward yelled, “I'm free!” “I'm here as a visitor.” 

Major Clarkson huffed. “Then might I remind you, as a visitor, that smoking is not allowed in the patient rooms?” 

“Sorry.” Thomas leaned over, resting the cigarette on a saucer beside Edward. He didn't stub it out. It smouldered, filling Edward's nostrils with an enticing scent, while he felt the meaningless bumps beneath his fingers. 

“As I was saying,” Clarkson went on, haughtily, “I think now is a perfect time for you to make the transition to Farley Hall. Isobel says that you are making some progress with the Braille.”

“Then Isobel is lying,” Edward replied. The bumps were as incomprehensible to him now as they had been when he'd started. The only difference was the calluses that were beginning to form on the tips of his fingers, which Thomas seemed to enjoy an inordinate amount as they ran over his skin.

“She feels you would be best served by continuing your learning with others like you. In a group setting. By the sea.” This last was added rather desperately.

Edward breathed deeply and forced himself not to panic. “I don't want to go.” It was as simple as that. For all his prior worries, Edward wasn't a prisoner or a victim, as Thomas had so clearly pointed out. He was an adult who could not be forced to do anything against his will, and leaving here—leaving Thomas—for Farley Hall was as far against his will as it was possible to get. 

Clarkson sighed. “I know you are very close to Dr. Crawley, and we all miss her. There are many excellent doctors at Farley Hall. I'm certain you will find someone with whom you can make a connection.”

“You can't make me go.” It sounded more petulant and childish than Edward had intended, but that didn't mean it wasn't true. “You can't force me to go to Farley Hall.” 

“No,” Clarkson admitted. “We can't.” He stepped toward the door. “But we can say there is nothing more we can do for you here, and discharge you.” 

“What?” The panic rose again. Edward pressed his foot against Thomas' leg, the nearest part of him he could reach. That forced the crisis into submission, for now.

“We can discharge you from here,” Clarkson repeated. “And if you refuse Farley Hall, that would leave you with nowhere to go. Is that what you want, Lieutenant Courtenay? To be on your own?” On that dramatic note, he left.

“Don't listen to him,” Thomas assured him. “He can't threaten you.”

“He just did.”

“He can't follow through. What kind of story would that be? 'Hospital kicks blind veteran out on his arse'? He'd be crucified.” 

“They would say I could go to Farley Hall.” Edward swallowed. “I don't want to go. It's far away from you.” And far away from Dr. Crawley. Despite what Isobel had said about her needing rest, Dr. Crawley spoke to him on the phone at least once a day, usually complaining about how bored she was and how sick of being in bed. Edward had learned to work the special mobile phone, with huge buttons and Braille bumps, expressly to speak with her. 

“But, you see?” She told Edward. “I didn't abandon you, did I? We've just got to do things a little differently, that's all.” She wouldn't stand for him being sent away, Edward was sure of that.

“You don't need to do anything you don't want to,” Thomas said. “Truly you don't. And if they do kick you out of here, then you could always come live with me.” His tone was light. It was a joke, but Edward still replied: “I couldn't.”

“Why not?” Thomas laughed. Still a joke, then. “I've got a nice place. Nice enough, anyway.” 

“I'm not ready. Not yet,” Edward added. That seemed important. 

“Come on.” Thomas reached across and picked up his cigarette. He took the Braille cards out of Edward's hand and shuffled them, cardboard rustling against cardboard. “Let's see if you can score a passing mark this time.” 

He didn't. Or the next time, or the time after that. Thomas rewarded him anyway, kissing him over and over again until Edward asked: “What will you do if I actually get one right?”

“Do it and find out,” Thomas replied. 

Dr. Crawley rang later that evening, after Thomas had left for work. 

“Major Clarkson's on about sending me to Farley Hall again,” he tattled, a child again, complaining to one parent about the other's injustices.

“Well,” said Dr. Crawley, “perhaps it is time to think about moving on. And before you lose it completely,” she added quickly, “listen to what I have to say.” 

“I'm listening,” Edward replied, grudgingly. 

“You've come a long way in a very short amount of time.” Thomas was to thank for it. Thomas and Dr. Crawley, together. Edward was under no illusions about that. “You can't let yourself stagnate. You have to keep challenging yourself. I'm sure it was what you did in the army.” That was so long ago, it hardly seemed applicable. “You can't let your relationship stagnate, either. How much can you and Thomas really be together while you're trapped in a hospital?” The camera had been removed, which helped a little, but Edward had to admit his living situation was limiting in many ways. Thomas had fallen out of bed three times the previous evening, right out onto the floor. Still, the other option was no more appealing. 

“I wouldn't even have my own room at Farley Hall.” Everything was communal there, to “foster a sense of community.” Clarkson had told him that, under the mistaken impression it was a selling point. 

“So maybe Farley Hall isn't the next step for you.” _Then what is?_ Farley Hall was frightening, a torture chamber of horrific proportions in Edward's mind, but he could think of no alternative. And that was even more frightening.

“Thomas said I could move in with him.” Edward didn't know why he told her that. He never knew why he told Dr. Crawley anything, she just brought it out of him, seemingly without even trying. If he was a different sort of man, he'd believe himself in love with her. “But it was a joke.”

“My parents thought it was a joke when Tom and I got married.” There was something new in Dr. Crawley's tone, a bitterness he'd never heard from her before. “Maybe you should think about it.”

He did. He thought about it a lot, turning the idea over in his mind, playing with it and elaborating on it. He pictured himself in a bright, spacious flat, everything laid out precisely, so he knew exactly where it was. Thomas would come home from work, exhausted and gorgeous in his dinner jacket and tie, and Edward would move effortlessly through this impeccably organized room to greet him. He would put his arms around Thomas and kiss him in their own home, where they never had to worry about anyone interrupting. Sometimes, when Edward let these imaginings segue into dreams, other figures occupied the fantasy alongside them. A guide dog of the type Isobel had told him about jumped about Edward and Thomas, sniffing at their legs as they embraced. Most rarely, as Edward pulled away from Thomas, little hands would grasp the back of his trousers as a tiny voice of indeterminate gender said: “Daddy.”

But those were dreams, and implausible ones. Edward said nothing about them to Thomas. Another week passed, and then another. Clarkson didn't approach him again until nearly three weeks had went by, but when he did, Edward knew why he'd waited so long. He'd been building up a head of steam, like a combustion engine or a volcano, until he was ready to blow.

“Major Clarkson would like to see you in his office,” the nurse told him, popping her head around the door. “Right away, please.”

This in itself was unusual. Clarkson always came to him, even now that Edward was out and about with regularity. 

“I'll be there,” Edward replied, out of curiosity more than anything else.

“Right away,” the nurse repeated, and left.

Edward used his white cane to make his way down the corridor to Major Clarkson's office. Isobel had been teaching him how to employ it properly, how to touch it against the walls and the furniture to gauge their position and avoid obstacles. Tapping a white cane in front of him marked him out as blind to everyone around him, but Edward had slowly gotten over that. As Isobel said, it was better for them to know he was blind than think he was off his head.

He tapped up to Major Clarkson's office, feeling the doorway, then stopped. He heard typing from within, then Major Clarkson's voice came. “Lieutenant Courtenay. Come in.” 

Edward stepped through the doorway. He put his stick out, tapping for the edge of a chair, when Clarkson barked: “Is there something wrong with your legs, Lieutenant?”

“My legs?”

“I can think of no other reason you would not be standing to attention in the presence of a senior officer.” 

Edward sighed inwardly. So it was going to be like that. “Yes, sir.” He straightened, keeping the stick by his side. 

“I have your orders,” Clarkson went on. Edward heard him moving around the desk, to stand in front of it. “You will be leaving here on Friday morning, no later than oh-nine-hundred. A place has been made available for you at Farley Hall from that time.”

“Major Clarkson...”

“Did I invite you to speak?” Edward didn't reply. “I beg your pardon? Have you now gone deaf as well, Lieutenant?” 

“No, sir.” Edward gripped the handle of the cane. “But I am no longer in the army.” He would never go into battle again, he would never command men. He couldn't even walk down a hallway without feeling his way with a stick. 

“As long as you are availing yourself of army resources, Lieutenant, I will consider you a member of the army and thus under my command. If you wish to be discharged against medical advice, I will make the appropriate forms available for you. In any case,” Clarkson's bluster faltered, but only a little. “You will leave this place no later than oh-nine-hundred hours this Friday. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, sir.” The floor wobbled beneath him. Edward was going to be sick. He only hoped he could hold it in until he was back in his room.

Clarkson sighed. “Then you are dismissed, Lieutenant Courtenay.”

He didn't know how he made it back to his room. By all rights, he should have collapsed in the corridor, but somehow, he remained upright, slamming his door and reaching for the mobile phone on the table. He paused, for just a moment, then he punched in a number.

“Hi, love.” Thomas answered on the third ring, his voice distracted. “Listen, could I ring you back? Grantham's bringing in a party for his mother's birthday and our fucking lunatic sous-chef is losing his shit over something.” In the background, Edward heard Alfred's voice shout: “Fucking Molesley, Jimmy?” A knife slammed onto a board. 

“I've been kicked out.” Edward's voice was small.

“What's that?”

He cleared his throat and tried again. “I've been kicked out. As of Friday morning.” 

Thomas was quiet. Edward cleared his throat, about to try again, when Thomas said: “So you'll come to my place, yeah?” 

“Do you want me?”

“Of course I do. I'd have had you weeks ago.” There was no hesitation this time. Another slam of a knife, and Edward heard Jimmy yell: “Fucking hell, Alfred, he were only rubbing a bit of sauce off me waistcoat!” _Three Michelin stars_ , Edward reminded himself. He wondered if any of them were for the food. “Listen, I've really got to go. I'll come by tomorrow, we can talk about it then, okay?”

“Okay. Bye.” Edward put down the phone, opposing emotions waging war within him. He didn't have to go to Farley Hall, which was a relief of epic proportions, but how long could he impose on Thomas' goodwill? And what would happen when the goodwill ran out? 

He picked up the phone again. Dr. Crawley's voicemail answered. He didn't know what to say; he couldn't form a single coherent thought. He put the phone down again and crawled into bed, even though it was barely seven o'clock. 

Thomas didn't show up until after noon the next day, long enough for Edward to convince himself he didn't really want him to move in. Thomas has only asked out of politeness, because he was a decent man and what else could he have said when Edward was practically begging him for help? Edward steeled himself to tell Thomas it was all right, that he didn't need to make such a big sacrifice and that he'd find a way on his own, maybe ring up the Salvation Army, when Thomas came in. “You all packed then?”

“What?”

“I know you said Friday, but I didn't think you'd want to hang about any more than necessary. And it's not like you've got a lot of stuff.” 

Edward stepped forward, his hands out to touch Thomas. Thomas was still in his dinner jacket, although his tie was gone. He smelled like wine and steak. Reaching up, Edward felt that Thomas' face was unshaven, his hair partially gelled, the front hanging loose and the back still tightly stuck down. “I didn't have chance to change,” Thomas said, by way of explanation. “And believe me, you get a few looks showing up at Homebase like this at eight o'clock in the morning.”

“Homebase?” Edward repeated. Thomas had never seemed like the DIY type. 

“I had to make a few changes to the flat. Make it easier for you,” he said. “And I had to clean it, too. To be honest, it was a bit of a tip. But it's a lot better now.” 

Edward didn't know what to say. “Thank you,” was what he said, but it seemed inadequate. 

“So, are you almost ready?”

It didn't take long to pack. Edward had next to nothing in the room. He stuffed his extra pair of tracksuit bottoms and a shirt into his duffel bag, along with his dressing gown and the teddy bear in fatigues. He left his uniform in the closet and tossed the pyjamas in the bin. He didn't ever want to wear them again. 

Thomas stuck Edna under his arm and flung the duffel bag over his back. With one hand on the cane and the other on Thomas' arm, Edward headed toward the bright light that marked the front door.

“Edward! Edward!” A voice came up behind him, accompanied by clicking feet. Edward turned, and Isobel gripped his arm. 

“So you're leaving?”

“It seems that way, yes.” 

The hand squeezed. “Best of luck, then.” She pushed something into the pocket of his tracksuit bottoms, her hand passing dangerously close to his cock.

“What's that?” He asked, alarmed.

“The address of a learning centre for the blind. You've got an appointment at ten o'clock on Tuesday morning. Don't be late. They aren't as forgiving as I am.” She hugged him close, planting a kiss on his cheek. Then, she let him go. 

“Where is the flat?” Edward asked, as the taxi drove them along sunny streets. He supposed he should start to learn these things, so he could ask for help when he inevitably got lost. “What part of the city?” 

“Chelsea...ish.” Thomas took his hand. “But you don't need to worry about that right now. I took a week off to help you get settled.”

“A week? What about Sarah? Won't she try and steal your job?” 

“She's got enough to worry about. Alfred was nicked last night for trying to murder our sommelier with a cleaver.”

“So, Jimmy's free, then.” Edward didn't know why he said it. He couldn't believe this was true, maybe. He couldn't believe that Thomas would really choose him, that anyone would choose him, if they had other options.

Thomas snorted. “Not hardly. He's already hooked one of Grantham's rich friends. Lady Anstruther, something like that. Anyway,” Thomas added, leaning in close. “I'm with you. Jimmy can go fuck himself.” 

“That's probably,” Edward determined, “what he'd like best.” 

The flat was on the third floor, in a building without a lift. “It's a bit of a bugger when you're carrying the shopping,” Thomas admitted, as he moved Edward's hand onto the bannister. “And it's a little small. I had a bigger place, but I made some bad investments a while back and had to downsize.” Edward walked slowly up the stairs, judging the depth of each with his stick. When they got to the top, Thomas went on ahead and opened the door. 

It smelled clean, but not in the sterile, antiseptic way of the hospital. In the nice, welcoming way Edward associated with home. “You don't smoke in here?” He asked.

“Only on the balcony,” Thomas replied. “I don't want to lower my property values. Again. Here,” he went on, as Edward tapped his way in. “This is the closet. I've got everything sorted out. Your coats on the left, my coats on the right. The sitting room's to the right here, but let's go into the kitchen first.” 

Edward followed him, his stick moving over carpet and onto tile. “I put a special handle on each of the drawers,” Thomas said, “so you can tell what's in them.” Edward reached out. He felt wood, and then what felt like a spoon attached to the front of the drawer. Moving along, he felt a dull knife screwed into the next one. A ladle was on the third. “Up here,” Thomas said, stretching Edward's arm, “are the cups. Tea cups on the left, saucers next, then glasses. Big ones at the back, small ones at the front. The plates are here,” he moved Edward's hand again, “by order of size, and then there's the soup bowls, salad bowls and mixing bowls. The food cupboards are a bit more complicated, we should probably leave that for later. But if you want to come to the fridge...”

Edward should have felt overwhelmed. There was so much to learn, so many things to worry about. In the space of a few hours, his world had expanded from a single, small room, where all his needs were met, to this, a universe of objects and places and expectations. Instead, Edward felt a band of warmth begin in his stomach and migrate upward. Thomas had done this for him. He'd stayed up all night, he hadn't even taken the time to change clothes, because he wanted to make Edward feel comfortable, to help him be happy in a place he'd never been before. He wanted Edward to feel at home.

Edward had never felt more at home in his life. 

“Thomas,” Edward interrupted, as Thomas went through some system of alphabetizing condiments. He swallowed, his throat dry. “Can we go to the bedroom?” It was as brazen as he'd ever been. Thomas didn't catch on.

“Yeah, of course.” He took Edward's hand. Edward squeezed it, hoping to convey even a fraction of what he felt. “I put a guide bar in the en suite bath,” Thomas said, as they moved down a hallway. It felt narrow; Edward touched both walls with his stick and guessed they were maybe four feet apart. “But I can put one in the main bath, too, if that's what you'd prefer. I know you're not up on the Braille yet, but when you are, this bloke at Homebase told me I can label the hot and cold taps, and all of the shampoo bottles and soap containers. If that's what you want.” Edward didn't want that, not at the moment. At the moment, there was one thing he wanted. He walked forward, until the stick hit what could only be a bed. 

“And this is your bed,” Thomas said. “I'll change the sheets for you, that's no problem, but if you want try to do it for yourself later, I'll put them in the cupboard in the hallway...”

“My bed?” 

Now, Thomas stopped talking. He cleared his throat. “Yeah. Well, I wasn't sure how you'd feel about that. So I made up the spare bed, just in case. For me.” 

“No.” That was the worst idea Edward had ever heard. “You should stay here.”

“Good.” The relief in Thomas' voice was almost palpable. “I say spare bed, it's more of a sofa, really. I can show you that, too...” 

“Not yet.” Edward sat down. The bed was soft, far softer than the brick he'd slept on in the hospital, and the thick duvet was warm from the sun. He sank down into it, pulling Thomas along with him. Thomas landed on top of him, and Edward stretched out, revelling in the sensation of putting his arms over his head and not falling off the bed. “Why would you think I wouldn't want you?”

Thomas sighed, close enough for Edward to feel it on his face. “You didn't exactly choose to come here of your own free will.” 

“No.” That was true. His choices had been severely restricted. “But I'm so happy I did. I can't believe what you've done for me.” 

“It wasn't that hard,” Thomas replied, modestly. “Although I can't think the neighbours were too thrilled with me drilling holes in the cabinets at four o'clock in the morning.” 

“Probably not.” He moved his arms down, embracing Thomas. “Why...” He began, but that didn't sound right. “You didn't have to.”

“I want to,” Thomas said, easily, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.” Edward did. He didn't just say it; he felt it, running through his body like an electric current. He buried his hands in Thomas' wonderful hair, ignoring the stickiness of the day-old gel, and brought their mouths together. They kissed, again and again, and then Edward felt it: a stirring he hadn't experienced for close to a year. 

Thomas pulled his mouth away, just far enough to murmur, “Is that...”

“I think so,” Edward whispered, as if they were discussing a nervous bird or some skittish animal that might be easily frightened away. 

“In that case, we should make it welcome.” 

Thomas moved down his body, pulling the tracksuit bottoms with him as he went. The sudden coolness of the air was nearly enough to shrink the tentative erection, but, in this as in everything Edward had experienced, Thomas was patient. He kissed Edward on the hips—the bones still protruded too far for Edward's liking—and on the stomach, his tongue dipping into Edward's navel. He moved lower still, to Edward's hesitant cock, licking it once before taking it into his mouth. 

It wasn't what Edward would call an orgasm for the ages. It wasn't anything to be commemorated in story or song, to be featured on any sort of pornography or even classical art, but the fact that it happened at all was enough to make him want to yell for joy. He came, slightly, and Thomas moved back up, lying on top of him and kissing him over and over again with a jubilation that nearly matched what Edward felt. 

“Fuck me,” Edward demanded, his hands digging into Thomas' shoulders. “You promised you would,” he reminded him, his voice imbued with a teasing happiness that hadn't been heard—or felt—in a very long time. “So do it now.” 

Thomas laughed. He moved away and, for a moment, Edward worried he'd said something wrong. Then he heard the rustling of clothes hitting the floor and Thomas was back, warm and naked, his mouth pressing against Edward's and his hands—without the glove, Edward noticed—sliding beneath his shirt. Automatically, Edward pulled down his sleeves, to cover his wrists before Thomas could touch them. 

It had been a long time since Edward had gone this far. Not everyone went in for this. Laurence hadn't, and Edward had to think back, to delve even further into the murky mists of his sexual history, to remember the last occasion on which he'd done it. He didn't care, he decided, finally. No matter when it had been, or with whom, it couldn't possibly compare to Thomas.

Thomas moved carefully, as if he was afraid Edward would break. It was Edward who finally took over, pushing Thomas onto his back and climbing astride him. For a second, as he felt Thomas' cock, hard as a rock and jutting against him, Edward worried that his impatience might have overstepped his level of comfort. He squared his shoulders. He was a former soldier, he reminded himself. A man of grit and resourcefulness. And doing it blind, surely, was no different to doing it in the dark. 

“Here,” Thomas moved. There was the sound of a drawer opening, and something wet and slightly sticky spurted onto Edward's hand. He reached back, applying the lubricant liberally. A little too liberally, perhaps. His hand slipped out twice. He took that as a sign and rested it on Thomas' chest. Thomas, his voice low and lustful, said: “Shift back a little, I'll put on the condom.” 

Edward hesitated. He knew all about the perils of unsafe sex, intellectually. He'd been forced to lecture his men endlessly on the subject, but when it came down to it, he didn't want anything between him and Thomas. “Is that really necessary, do you think?” He asked, then regretted his tone, if not his words. He sounded like he was discussing some minor bureaucratic inconvenience.

“I haven't done it since the bastard,” Thomas replied, frankly. “And they ran me through a bunch of tests when I was under the rape accusation.”

“I haven't done it since I can remember,” Edward countered. And they'd tested him frequently in the army. 

“Right, then.” Thomas squeezed Edward's leg. “Here we go.”

The moment, when it came, was both far worse and far easier than Edward expected. It hurt more than he seemed to remember, but that didn't matter. Thomas, his moans and sobs and cries, his compliments and encouragements and whispered declarations of love, made it all worthwhile. When Thomas came, Edward let him fill his heart as well as his body. Afterwards, rather than wanting to roll off and get cleaned up, he lay beside Thomas for a long time, listening to his pounding heartbeat and running his hands across his heaving chest. 

Supper was egg and chips, not quite up to Chef Patmore's standards, but a damn sight better than anything Edward had seen in the hospital. Later, Thomas helped Edward into the bath. It was a relief to finally have one. Edward slid down, letting the water come up to his chin, as Thomas rattled something around at the sink beside him. 

“What do you do about shaving?” Thomas asked, after a moment, his tone light.

“I can usually manage all right,” Edward replied. “Sometimes I miss a spot. They made me use an electric razor at the hospital.” One with batteries. The reason behind that hung unspoken.

“Do you need one of those here?”

“No.” 

“Are you sure? Because I'd really hate for you to...have trouble with your razor.”

Edward felt his face redden. It had nothing to do with the hot water. “I won't,” he promised. He'd never been more sincere in his life. 

After Edward had turned himself into a prune, he got out and they lay in bed together. Thomas read him another chapter out of the hospital copy of “Lady Chatterley's Lover” that had mysteriously made its way into Edward's duffel bag, and Edward fell asleep wrapped in his arms.

The dream came quickly. As usual, Edward watched himself put on his helmet and take his radio. He saw the other Edward, the Lieutenant Courtenay, joke with the men about a poker game and take his place in the Land Rover next to Captain Turner. As he watched, the Land Rover drove away, off into the distance with Lieutenant Courtenay and Captain Turner on board. Instead of going with them, of watching the inevitable crisis unfold, this time Edward stayed behind. The wind came up, rustling his clothes and whipping through his hair. Before his eyes, the Land Rover's tire marks were swallowed up by the shifting sand, gradually disappearing as if they'd never been there at all. 

One year later

Isis stirred at the sound of shuffling in the hallway outside the flat. Before there was even a knock on the door, the guide dog was on her feet, nudging Edward's leg insistently. “All right, all right.” He stood. “Thomas,” he called, as he made his way across the room. “They're here.”

“I swear to God, Edward,” Tom Branson said, as Edward opened the door. “It gets harder to park around here every damn time we come. If I end up with a ding, I'm going to knock over those flower pots in front of the building in exchange.”

“Sounds fair,” Edward determined. He stepped back to let them in. Little Gwen was in her carrier, gurgling cheerfully. Sybil bent to take her out as Tom closed the door behind them. 

“I like the new paint on the doors,” Sybil said. “It's very cheerful.” 

Thomas laughed as he came up beside Edward, touching his arm to let him know where he was. “Thanks. I told Edward the best thing about living with him is he won't know if I do a shit job with the decorating. Come here, darling.” Thomas held out his arms. Sybil passed Gwen into them, and Thomas hoisted her up, over his head. 

“You want to watch that,” Tom warned. “She had a bottle on the way over.”

Thomas was unconcerned with this potential disaster. “Come on. I'll show you what I did in the bathroom.”

They disappeared down the hall. Sybil followed Edward into the sitting room, taking a chair across from him. Isis sat obediently at Edward's feet. “Can I get you a cup of tea?” It was all laid out on the tray in front of him, the way he'd learned at his lessons. Cups to the left, spoons to the right, sugar, milk and teapot in the middle, in that order. 

“With milk, please.” Feeling for the rim of the cup with one hand, Edward poured the milk and the tea with the other. From the direction of the bathroom, Gwen giggled and Thomas laughed.

“He's very good with her.” Sybil took the cup. Her tone was non-committal as always, even though they were now friends rather than doctor and patient. 

Edward poured a cup of tea for himself, mixing in the sugar and returning the spoon to its place. “There's a pregnant woman living downstairs,” he said. “Ethel.” A ridiculous name. It reminded Edward of Edna, the blow-up doll, stuck in the back of the bedroom closet and still a virgin, unless Thomas had been getting up to something when he was out. “She doesn't want the baby, but it's too late for an abortion. She's been spending a lot of time up here.” They hadn't told anyone about this possibility, not even Thomas' father, who rang regularly. He'd even been to visit, once, bringing a Braille watch for Edward, so he didn't have to harass all and sundry with the mechanical voice of the speaking clock whenever he needed the time. They hadn't spoken to Edward's parents at all for months. 

“That would be exciting.” 

“For Thomas.” Thomas would be a good father. He wanted it, he'd told Edward that almost at the beginning, when he described the lies his bastard ex had used to lure him in. The ex had a name, apparently. It was Philip Crowborough. Thomas had shared that, yelping with joy, when he found an article on the _Guardian_ website saying the man had gone bankrupt.

“And for you.” 

Edward shrugged. He was getting more independent all the time, especially with Isis to help him, but there wasn't much he could do for a baby. Pour it a cup of tea and take it on the bus without getting lost. Maybe. “Consider where you were a year ago, Edward,” Sybil went on. “Consider where you were when we first met.” 

“I don't like to.” He was utterly embarrassed about nearly all of what he'd done back then. Particularly the thing he could never forget, the one forever commemorated by the marks on his wrists. 

Sybil reached over, her hand resting on his arm. “So consider everything that's happened since then.” Even that could be overwhelming, if he considered it too deeply. Edward didn't know what he'd done to deserve such good luck, but he wasn't taking it for granted. 

“I still think of Mrs. Turner, sometimes,” Edward said, as if Sybil was his psychiatrist again. He had another one, Dr. Hughes, who was just as kind and understanding. Even Thomas was seeing her, to work through his own issues, but still, there was something missing. “You never forget your first psychiatric love,” Thomas joked, but it was true. 

“I'm certain she thinks of you, too,” Sybil said. Then Tom and Thomas and Gwen came back. Gwen shrieked with delight at something Thomas was doing and Tom told Sybil she ought to see the shelving Thomas had put in the bathroom, because that was just what he wanted to do with theirs. Thomas passed Gwen back to her mother and sat down, resting his free hand on Edward's knee. Edward reached out, ignoring the catch of his shirtsleeve against one of his fading scars, and covered the hand with his own.


End file.
